Trust
by jeanie2914
Summary: When an undercover operation into a crime ring exposes police corruption, false statements send law enforcement on a manhunt for Neal Caffrey. Injured and on the run from both the criminals and the NYPD, Neal can only trust Peter. But as his situation appears to grow more desperate, so does his doubts. He trusts Peter, but does Peter really trust him?
1. Chapter 1

_I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. I plan to update this story about every three days instead of every other which is my usual schedule. I haven't quite finished it yet so I need the extra time :)_

 _I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility._

 **Chapter One**

There was a moment, just a second or two when Neal thought perhaps Detective Second Grade Scott McNeely was working undercover and had stumbled into the FBI's case. The man's eyes had widened in recognition when Neal had stepped through the door; Neal hoped it was because he was afraid his cover might be blown. However, that hope was a fleeting one; soon it was altogether too clear that was not the case.

"Nick," Garrison began with the introductions, "Scott handles some aspects of security for me. He is uniquely positioned to ensure that our business dealings go off without any interference from the authorities."

McNeely was uniquely positioned in that he _was_ the authority. As a member of the NYPD Organized Crime Control Bureau, his unit was charged with the investigation and prevention of organized crime in New York City. In his position with the OCCB, he was in the perfect position to make sure law enforcement attention was directed away from the activities of Garrison. He would also have knowledge of any outside agency that began to take special notice of his organization.

Neal had met the detective a couple years prior when a case McNeely was working had crossed over into a White Collar case. Although the meeting had been a brief one, it had apparently made an impression. For such a large city, New York was suddenly feeling rather cramped.

McNeely's eyes narrowed and suddenly Neal was staring down the barrel of his weapon. "I think you have a loyalty problem here, Mr. Garrison," McNeely said softly.

Neal's mouth had gone dry, but he managed a smile anyway. "That sounds a little hypocritical coming from you, _Detective_ McNeely."

"Shut your mouth," McNeely snapped at Neal, then spoke quietly to Garrison, "Did you check him for wires, for transmitters?"

"Oh course," Garrison, confused by McNeely's behavior, looked from one to the other. "We have jammers in the car, and we scanned him again after we arrived. He's clean. Why? What's wrong?"

"His name isn't Halden, it's Caffrey," McNeely said quietly. "He works with the feds; White Collar Division, or he did a couple years ago."

Garrison's teeth clenched in anger at the news but unleashed it not on Neal but McNeely instead. "The Feds? How the hell did you let this happen?" he yelled, "You said you'd know if anyone was snooping around in my business; I _pay you_ to know these things!"

"This didn't come down the normal channels," McNeely explained, his eyes narrowing on Neal. "My office wasn't aware of any FBI involvement, and none of the local authorities were informed."

The Bureau had suspicions that someone was providing protection for Garrison's illegal activities and for that reason, the operation had been need-to-know and played very close to the vest. Even the OCCB had not been given notification of the investigation or the operation.

"Look, there is no FBI involvement," Neal lied, "I am not working for anyone but myself here."

"You really expect me to believe that?" McNeely snorted.

"Look," Neal continued, trying to build some level of commaradie, "sometimes I pick up a little freelance work to help make ends meet, you know? And if it were an FBI investigation, you'd know about it, right?"

"Yes, I would." He seemed to relax somewhat at that realization. "What _freelance work_ do you have with Mr. Garrison here?"

"I am interested in acquiring a Degas he has in his possession." Neal held up the case, "I have $150,000 here, all ready to exchange once I verify the painting's authenticity."

Neal's watch, equipped with a GPS locator, could be deactivated and reactivated to avoid Garrison's scans. The device in the case was the same, but couldn't be activated until the case was opened. Neal would have shown the money to Garrison, activating the signal for Peter and the team to move in. It would still have taken several minutes for them to arrive; time Neal would have spent verifying the painting. But things had gone slightly off course; well, things had gone drastically off course. McNeely had recognized him, the case was unopened and Peter and the team were patiently waiting four blocks out.

"I'm afraid that you will not be able to complete that transaction, Mr. Caffrey," McNeely informed him coolly. "At least, not your end of it."

"I see no reason why not," Neal said easily, still hoping for a reprieve. He nodded towards Garrison. "He brings me the Degas, I give him clean money, and we both go on our merry way. No need for things to get complicated."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Caffrey, they already are." McNeely sighed, "Believe me, I understand the idea of doing a little freelance work, but the fact that you know who I am creates a problem that I can't afford to have."

"It doesn't have to," Neal countered, "You know I'm buying a stolen painting; that makes you a threat to me as well. You realize that I only work for the FBI because I have to, don't you? It keeps me out of prison. They get wind I've done anything illegal and my deal is off. I will go straight back without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars. So you see, your secret is safe with me."

McNeely seemed to consider the concept of mutual risk but rejected it with a shake of his head. "Sorry, Caffrey, I really am, but you're obviously not very trustworthy." He looked at Garrison "I suggest you make yourself scarce. You will be completing no business with Mr. Caffrey today."

Garrison eyed the case in Neal's hand, reluctant to leave without it. Neal could understand; it wouldn't be as if he could file a complaint about a breach of contract. He would be dead. "What are you going to do?" Garrison asked McNeely.

"Take him out behind the next building shoot him," McNeely answered. Apparently Neal's efforts at creating a sense of camaraderie had failed miserably. "That is what happens when someone engaging in criminal activities shoots at officers responding to a call. We return fire."

It was a technically but Neal mentioned it anyway. "I'm not armed."

"Don't worry, you will be when they process the scene." McNeely turned to one of Garrison's men and extended his free hand. Without a word, the man handed over his own firearm. McNeely deposited it in his own jacket pocket. "I will write up the incidence report myself," His smile was humorless "and my partner here will corroborate it."

"I have never even been suspected of a violent crime," Neal stated, beginning to feel a bit of panic as the situation deteriorated. How long before Peter's patience ran out? "People might believe I could dabble in questionable activities, but they will never think I'd carry a weapon or fire on officers."

"They will believe whatever I tell them," McNeely's tone was matter-of-fact. "I am a decorated member of the NYPD, and I have a perfect service record," He nodded at the man with him, "Reece here has one too. Your record?" He shrugged, "Well, let's just say _less_ than perfect. People might be disappointed, Caffrey, but I doubt they'll be all that surprised. A zebra can't change its stripes; once a criminal always a criminal."

Those words resonated painfully within Neal; it was an underlying attitude he dealt with every day. Not just in those he came in contact with, his coworkers and friends, but even within himself. Neal was aware that many at the FBI didn't trust him; even Peter's motto was trust but verify. McNeely was right; given compelling evidence, a gun with his prints at the scene, and testimony from stellar members of the OCCB, any doubts of his guilt would eventually be overcome. Peter would argue that Neal was unarmed and working undercover, but with no audio, there would be no proof as to what had actually transpired during the meeting. It would come down to the word of McNeely and Reece, and just as he had said, in the end, they would be believed. Peter would never buy their story, but with no way to refute their claims, he would be forced to accept it.

"You know I'm right, don't you, Caffrey?" McNeely's smile was cruel. "If given the option, they _will_ think the worst of you."

"Not all of them," Neal replied quietly, making his decision. He was not going anywhere with this man. His best chance was to make a move now. There was probably ten to twelve feet between him and McNeely; the door he had entered through was only a couple feet behind him. It was heavy and only partially open.

Garrison obviously wanted the case and giving it to him might provide a momentary diversion. In a quick motion, Neal both tossed the case at Garrison and moved back through the opening. His sudden movement surprised McNeely; there were a curse and a shot. Neal felt a hard blow to his shoulder as he stumbled back through the doorway.

He ducked behind the metal door which blocked McNeely's second shot. Neal pushed it closed and slid the heavy bolt in place before McNeely and his associates could close the distance between them. There was an immediate, angry bang on the other side of the metal door.

"You have nowhere to go, Caffrey; I will have the entire NYPD hunt you down!" McNeely shouted. The shout was followed by silence and Neal knew the men were now dashing across the warehouse to the opposite door, planning to come around the long way to head him off. There was a roaring in his ears; he guessed it was the sound of the shots echoing about the large space. His heart was pounding and he felt out of breath even though he hadn't done much to warrant it.

He took stock of where he was. He knew the door McNeely and his men would enter. To his right, it would be the closest entrance after they sprinted around the perimeter of the building. To the far side was the larger opening, the open space awaiting him there having no cover. A doorway to his right lead back into the warehouse offices, storage areas and workspaces. There would be exits in that direction as well.

Deciding that a maze of hallways and assorted rooms offered better chances of avoiding McNeely than the large open areas, Neal opened that door and headed down the hallway towards the back of the warehouse. The first room was a break room; he grabbed a shirt left by a day worker from the back of a chair. He could feel the burning of the wound tearing through his shoulder and blood was beginning to drip, leaving marks on the floor. Trying to lose his pursuers wouldn't be easy if he left a blood trail like breadcrumbs straight to his location. He wadded up the shirt, opened his jacket, and pressed it to the wound. He gasped at the pressure and felt nausea sweep across him. He pulled his jacket back around, using it to keep the makeshift bandage in place. He had to think fast and move faster.

Looking around the room, he spotted the OSHA required Emergency Exit Plan Diagram in a black frame near the time clock. All he had to do was stay ahead of McNeely until Peter realized something was wrong and used the watch to track his location. And Peter wasn't a patient man; if he didn't get the move signal soon, he'd suspect something was wrong. He snatched the diagram off the wall, gave it a quick look to choose the proper exit from the room. Decision made; he pulled open the door and ran for his life.


	2. Chapter 2

_I know I said I would only post every third day (and I still plan to update that way), but I am leaving on a trip today and might not have access to a computer until Monday. So, I am posting a day early instead of two days late. I hope that is okay with everyone. Thanks for reading and as always, reviews make me smile. Have a wonderful weekend! Chapter Three on Monday :)_

 **Chapter Two**

It was adrenaline, and in truth probably fear, that kept Neal on his feet. He used the building diagram to find his way out a back entrance of the warehouse into the growing twilight of the afternoon. It was February; the winter days ended early and with the thick cloud cover, it had ended even earlier than usual. Neal didn't mind that; the impending darkness to him would be a help instead of a hindrance. McNeely could only rely on what he could see to find him; Peter could track him down with the GPS in his watch. He just had to give Peter time to do that. Hence, the darkness was welcome but the cold, not so much. It seemed to cut through his light jacket and into the very core of his body. He found himself shivering almost immediately.

He was sure he had made fast progress through the warehouse. Since McNeely, his partner and Garrison's men would be looking in every nook and cranny, Neal figured he had gained several minutes ahead of them. Once outside, as long as he left no trail, the options for his escape routes would increase. This would force his pursuers to split up in order to cover more ground. The longer he stayed ahead of them, out of their sight, the better his chances of survival became.

He moved as quickly as he could away from the warehouses. He wasn't sure of his location. He had purposefully randomized his course and now had moved into a dingy and sparsely populated area. How many blocks he had covered, and in what direction, he had no idea. Most buildings were boarded up and deserted. He passed a dumpster and, letting it block the view of him from the street, leaned against the building to catch his breath. It had started to drizzle; in addition to cold, Neal was beginning to feel weak and winded. He was afraid his trembling was not just from the chill and wetness in the air. In spite of the shirt he had stuffed inside of his jacket to stop the flow of blood, he was beginning to think the wetness on his back was more than sweat from exertion and rain. In his haste to escape his pursuers, he hadn't given his physical condition much thought. Had the bullet gone through him? Was he still bleeding? How bad was he hurt?

His adrenaline rush spent, his legs felt like rubber. He slid down the wall to a sitting position; he had to rest for a minute or two. Not having found him, it was only a matter of time until McNeely called in reinforcements. What had he said? He would have the entire NYPD looking for him? Not having been made aware of the undercover operation, the NYPD would only know what McNeely told them; they would have no reason to doubt his word. Considered armed and dangerous, officers might simply shoot him on sight.

An unexpected wave of panic swept over him as the seriousness of his situation hit him, but it only lasted a moment. He took a shaky breath; reminding himself that by now, Peter's knew things had gone wrong and was tracking him. Peter was on his way; it was only a matter of time until he found him. Once he explained what had happened, Peter would take care of him, and of the NYPD as well. He just had to wait, but he couldn't wait in the open. He had to find a place to hide. He was tired, and breathing was becoming increasingly more difficult. He needed a moment to regain some strength; then he would find somewhere out of sight to wait for Peter. He placed his good arm on his knees and put his head down.

 _Just for a minute,_ he thought as he closed his eyes, _just a minute, and I will be on the move again._

"Hurry, man," a voice called from some distance away. Someone was jostling him roughly; he could feel clumsy hands digging around in his jacket pockets. He was no longer sitting against the wall of the building. He was lying on his side; he could feel the wet roughness of the pavement against his cheek. "Is he dead?"

"I don't think so," This voice was at his ear, hands stilling momentarily before resuming their rummaging, "but he's bleeding. He's been stabbed or shot or something. There is blood all over him."

"That's more trouble than its worth, leave him. Let's go!"

"He's got a wallet," the voice continued, the hands increasing their efforts in spite of the fact that they were wrenching his shoulder painfully. "I can feel it." A groan escaped Neal's mouth.

"No time, _leave it_ ," the other voice sounded insistent, "Cops are coming from everywhere; probably looking for him, and we don't want to be here when they find him." His words were illustrated by a wailing of a siren that passed the mouth of the alley. The sound affected both Neal and the clumsy thief; Neal's eyes flew open, and the thief, with a curse, abandoned his efforts to relieve Neal of his wallet. The thief quickly got to his feet and joined his friend. Without even a glance back, the two men disappeared around the next building, in the direction opposite of the one the patrol car had traveled.

Neal feared the thieves were correct in their assumptions of why the police were suddenly swarming the area; McNeely had called in the false incident. Now the NYPD was looking for him too. He had only meant to rest a moment. It had grown colder and darker, and he was dripping wet with rain. How long had he been here? Where was Peter? Shouldn't he have found him by now?

The thieves had been eager to put distance between themselves and the sudden police presence in the area, and Neal felt the same way. He struggled to get up: it took him longer than it should have to get to his feet. He was cold and stiff; his body didn't seem to want to cooperate with him. Once he was upright, the alleyway tilted, causing him to stagger against the building for support. There was an odd roaring in his ears; something was very wrong. He was confused but then remembered what had happened in the warehouse; McNeely had _shot_ him. That he had momentarily forgotten the incident caused him concern of a different kind altogether. He wasn't thinking clearly, and he had to be able to think clearly if he wanted to live.

He felt in his jacket; the shirt he had stuffed there was still in place, but blood had seeped through it and his shirt and pants were sticky. He inspected the area he had been lying only moments before. There was blood there as well. Blood loss concerned him for more than one reason. First, it was most likely why he was weak and unsteady and, if not stopped, would finally kill him. Secondly, leaving a blood trail for McNeely and the NYPD to follow could possibly have the same end result; perhaps even more expediently. As he stood there, waiting for the alley to right itself, the rain began to fall harder; the downpour washing away the blood that he had left behind on the pavement. Reassured, he pushed away from the building and steadying himself, staggered down the alleyway.

Turning up the narrow street behind the backs of buildings with darkened windows, he saw no place for shelter. Metal doors were locked and with access to only one, shaking hand, he wasn't about to try to pick his way inside. The rain was cold; it had drenched him to the skin, and his shivering had returned in earnest. He felt it had been hours since he had escaped from the warehouse, but reason told him that wasn't the case. He had to find shelter and a place to rest. He had to hide from all the people who were looking for him-the NYPD, McNeely, Garrison's men-from everyone but Peter. He smiled to himself; hiding from Peter had never worked anyway, Peter always found him. And this time, he was very thankful for the fact.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"We have a problem." Jones' words only confirmed what Peter had been feeling in his gut for the past half hour. He understood that sometimes meetings took longer than expected, and he had confidence that Neal would be able to complete the transaction. But as time continued to pass, and Neal didn't activate the signal, Peter had begun to grow more and more concerned that something had gone wrong.

"Shots were fired on the waterfront," Jones continued. "Near the location of the warehouse where Neal and Garrison are meeting. Officers say a suspect fled the scene on foot. The description they gave matches Neal."

"What?" Peter asked. "What is the NYPD doing down there?" Since he was on their turf without their knowledge he realized the irony of his question, but their presence was now interfering with his operation. Never ideal, it wouldn't be the first time Neal had evaded the officers to keep his cover intact; that didn't worry Peter. It was the shooting part that did. Jones next words didn't alleviate that worry.

"There's an APB out on him right now; units are responding. Armed and dangerous," He turned and looked at Peter, concern clear on his face, "They say he fired on officers and they returned fire."

"That's impossible," Peter responded. Except for his quick wit and lightning reflexes, Neal was _always_ unarmed.

"I know, but I'm just telling you what was just called in."

Peter's instincts had been correct; something had obvious gone very wrong during the meet with Garrison. Neal hadn't activated the signal, so the problem must have occurred before the deal had been completed. If officers had fired on Neal Peter knew it wasn't because he had fired on them; there had to be another reason.

"Jones," Peter moved behind him, "Who called it in? What officers were involved?"

"Don't know, but I can find out. Give me a minute." He got busy with the computer in front of him. "McNeely and Reese, they are with the OCCB," He supplied after a moment. "The report says the suspect fired on them when they answered a 10-107 call." He met Peter's eyes, "It also says the subject was hit when they returned fire but managed to escape."

Neal had been hit when officers returned fire. "How bad?" Worry transformed into fear. "Did they say where he was hit?"

"No," Jones answered, his own voice tight with distress. "There is no more information, but he did get away," he added hopefully. "They're preparing to canvas the area."

The incident report was obviously untrue; Peter could only think of one reason officers would fire on Neal and file a false report. He kept his voice calm in spite of how he felt.

"Check the names of the reporting officers against our case files, see if either one of them has ever crossed paths with Neal." At Jones questioning look, he explained, "We knew that Garrison had someone on the inside protecting him, and I think Neal might have found out who that was."

Realizing that scenario would give reason to the recently unexplainable, Jones went to work on the computer. After a moment, he had an answer. "McNeely was involved in the McLeary case we worked a couple years ago. He would have recognized Neal."

"And yet he didn't identify him in the report."

"Identifying Neal Caffrey would have alerted us immediately, and he didn't want that happening." Jones looked at Peter; a thought suddenly occurring to him. "He doesn't realize that we are already here; he doesn't know Neal is part of an FBI operation."

That made sense. Peter had been confused by McNeely's actions thus far. He probably intended to kill Neal when he recognized him, but when Neal managed to escape him, he had had to improvise. Calling in the NYPD and making a false report seemed like a strange course of action if he had indeed been made by an undercover operative. The best recourse would have been to move quickly, establish an alibi for the evening and send Garrison's muscle to take care of Neal before he could talk. But if he was unaware that Neal was on a case and thought Neal was truly dabbling in money laundering, the officer involved shooting scenario would work well. It mobilized dozens of officers in the search. Best case scenario, Neal would succumb to his wounds and be found dead in an alley somewhere, his condition already explained by the report. He could be killed by trigger happy officers while resisting arrest, or even if captured alive, arresting officers wouldn't believe a word he said. With McNeely on point in the case, a call placed to Garrison would ensure that Neal wouldn't live long enough to tell his story to anyone willing to listen.

"Neal would have denied he was working with us," Peter postulated "and since we didn't notify the OCCB or the local precincts about our operation, McNeely must have bought his story." Neal had managed to keep his cover in place, and the operation viable, even if he had gotten shot in the process.

"That doesn't surprise me," Jones said, "Neal can be very convincing. Especially when trying to save an operation," he paused "or _his life_ ," he added.

"Yeah, but McNeely wasn't going to let him walk away with that kind of information. He doesn't want Neal found; he wants him dead."

"Then the NYPD won't be the only ones looking for him. If Garrison's people find him, he'll be in the Hudson."

"Neal will know that," Peter said, "He'll get out of sight and wait for us to come get him. Jones," Peter moved behind him, "pull up his location. Where is he?"

"He's here," The data showed that Neal was six blocks east. If he'd managed to run six blocks, why hadn't he just came back to the van? Either his pursuers had dictated in some way his flight or he hadn't been thinking clearly during his escape. He had rather it be the first reason and not the second one.

"Stationary or still moving?" Peter asked.

"Stationary; He been there about twenty minutes. Should I call a bus to that location?"

"NYPD will be monitoring any EMS dispatches to this area. McNeely and Reese are down here too and might beat me there." Peter climbed through the opening and took the seat behind the wheel. Jones normally did the driving, but this time Peter turned the key and started the van, not willing to wait on Jones to disconnect himself from the computer. "We'll go get him ourselves. We need to get the van out of this neighborhood anyway. Neal managed to keep McNeely in the dark about the case, and I'd hate for us to blow it. Jones, keep your eyes on that signal; if Neal moves, let me know."

The signal didn't move at all during the several minutes it took to drive to the location. It turned out to be a bridge under 245th Street, where the river joined the waterfront. The rain had begun to fall in earnest. Peter had hoped Neal had found an abandoned building to hide in, but at least it would be dry beneath the bridge. The wind would also be blocked, not adding wind-chill to the already cold temperatures. Peter tried to keep the thoughts of Neal hurt and bleeding in such miserable conditions out of his mind. He focused on the fact that Neal was smart and resourceful. Peter wouldn't have thought beneath a bridge to be a good hiding place until he drew closer. Then, again, Neal never ceased to amaze him. Hiding in plain sight should never be underrated, and this was a clear example of just that.

Peter knew that a lot of homeless people found shelters throughout the city, but also a larger number did not. At shelters, there were rules and a curfew, and many didn't want that kind of constraints on their movements. For this reason, many chose to live in homeless camps, and It seemed the underside of the 245th Street Bridge was a considerably large one. From first glance, there were at least eighty people gathered there on this particular evening. Some were huddled around small campfires; others were wrapped in blankets and tucked into the small space where the bank met the concrete of the bridge. Peter imagined that location was the warmest and provided the most protection from the wind. It was hard to tell men from women, black from white, young from old. All were dingy and outfitted in layers of clothing that obscured their physical characteristics. Searching for Neal here would be time-consuming to say the least, and Peter doubted the homeless would take be jostled kindly. Jones had sent information to his phone; the exact GPS location of Neal. Peter pulled up the information and picked his way through the area.

He was not met with hostility, but he wasn't met with friendliness, either. It was clear he didn't belong here, and his intrusion was viewed with suspicion. The area was filthy, and the rancid smell of urine permeated the air.

It took him several minutes to get his bearings with the GPS locator and start moving in the direction that would lead to Neal. He found his way near the top of the bank. Many people were on the ground, wrapped in blankets like nothing more than lumps. Others were sitting with their blankets around them, their backs against the concrete. Slowly, he made his way down the line until his coordinates exactly matched Neal's. He was sitting against the wall; the worn gray blanket pulled over his head as well as his shoulders, his arm, and head resting on his knees. He blended in perfectly with those around him. Peter was relieved that he had found Neal before McNeely or any of the rest but was apprehension about what condition he might be in. He had been shot nearly a half hour before, according to the report, and had been suffering from both blood loss and exposure ever since. He was still and didn't raise his head when Peter stopped in front of him. Peter got to his knees on the dirty ground beside him. He put a tentative hand on his shoulder, speaking at the touch.

"Neal, it's me," He said softly, not wishing to alarm him, "Can you hear me? How bad are you hit?"

In spite of his efforts, the head suddenly snapped up; surprise in the eyes that gazed back at him. Covered in dirt and grime, the face, although young and handsome, was not the face of Neal Caffrey.

After a moment of complete shock, Peter grabbed the man's arm, wrenching it out from beneath the blanket.

"Hey!" the young man cried in protest, trying to pull away. Neal's watch was fastened around his wrist.

Peter felt his heart drop into his stomach. Not only was Neal hurt but he was lost and Peter had no idea where to find him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Neal's feet become more and more weighted as he moved through the growing darkness. He felt he it had been hours since he had escaped from the warehouse, but he knew that his perception of time was likely flawed.

Finally, his feet too heavy to lift effectively, he stumbled, suddenly finding himself on the ground. Breathing heavily and exhausted, he just lay there. He knew he needed to move but had to accept the fact that, this time, he was not going to be able to do it. He could go no further. He would just have to wait and see who found him first; Peter or McNeely. This was the end of his effort to escape.

Before he could succumb to his fate, he caught sight of a window just in front of him. It was small, just twelve inches or so high and only half again as wide. There were several of them along the bottom of the darkened building, probably opening onto the cellar. Miraculously, this one seemed to be slightly ajar. He got to his knees slowly and moved closer. He reached out and pushed against the dirty glass, feeling the window creak open beneath his fingers. The air greeted him was warm; the space inside dark. He had no sense of its size or contents nor did he care at this point. He opened the window wider. Warm and dark, this would be a perfect place to hide. Maybe his effort to escape wasn't quite over after all. His injury made it hard, but he managed to crawl inside. He hadn't known what to expect, but it hadn't been a drop of several feet. Head first and unable to adequately break his fall, the impact wrenched a cry of pain from his lips.

The floor was cool, smooth and hard; he just lay there. It took him several moments to gather his thoughts; his mental processes already slow, the blow to the head did nothing to clear his mind. After a bit, he rolled to his stomach and then awkwardly pushed himself upright, and then to his feet. Turning, he closed the window he had entered and locked it. He was safe; McNeely was unlikely to look here, where ever here was. He leaned against the wall and took stock of his surroundings. Very little light filtered through the row of windows, but some did, and after just a moment or two he began to be able to make out shapes in the darkness. He moved slowly across the space. Stumbling over something in the middle of the floor, he reached down to determine what it was. It was an open, wooden box. He seemed to be in a storage room of some kind. The box was filled with a heavy, rough material. Neal sank to the floor with his back against the crate, grateful for a place of safety to rest as well as for the warmth of the room. But in spite of the warmth, he was still shivering with cold. He reached into the box and pulled out the material; its texture reminded him of upholstery fabric. Wrapping it as best he could about him, it brought him some comfort. He closed his eyes and was unconscious in less than a minute.

Wcwcwcwcwcwwc

The kid from under the bridge, after first insisting he had found the watch, admitted he had taken it from an unconscious man in an alley. The man he described matched Neal perfectly, even down to the way he was dressed. He claimed he hadn't hurt the man and hadn't even realized he was injured until he started to search him for anything valuable. When Peter pressed him about Neal's condition, his report did nothing to calm his fears.

Unconscious and bleeding, he had been lying in an alley near a dumpster. The kid had taken the watch first and had began to rifle through the man's pockets when the police sirens had sped by the mouth of the alley. At that point, he had abandoned his efforts and fled the scene. He claimed that the siren had roused the man from his stupor, too. "He seemed freaked out by them just like, well, just like me," He admitted. "I figured he was in some kind of trouble with them too."

Peter asked about the briefcase, but the boy swore he hadn't seen one. Peter believed him: after all if the boy indeed had taken a briefcase containing $150,000 in cash, he wouldn't have been found freezing beneath the 245th Bridge.

Peter didn't take him in even though he would probably have welcomed a warmer environment for his interview. After Peter was finished talking to him and recovered Neal's watch, he joined the rest of the team at the van.

No one said it, but everyone was thinking the same thing: what was the right move? When Peter was confident Neal would be easy to find, he hadn't been overly concerned with the fact that the NYPD was looking for him. Jones' earlier supposition that McNeely didn't realize Neal was undercover rang true. With that in mind, it seemed worthwhile to keep the operation intact, recover Neal and make adjustments. With information from Neal, he was sure they could put in place a plan to finish Garrison and trap McNeely as well. But Neal had not been recovered; he was hurt and now untrackable.

From the description the kid gave, Peter put the alley just two blocks from the warehouse. The area was now being combed by dozens of officers. Jones had been monitoring the radio chatter, and there had been no reports of Neal being found. He had either found a place to hide, managed to get clear of the area, or something more dire had occurred that wouldn't be called in over the police radio. Which was it? Should Peter let the operation go and tell the NYPD Neal was working undercover or should he try to salvage it by keeping Neal's cover in place?

They had spent over six weeks on this case already, and weeks before that in prep time. Time. Everything came down to time. Time for the money in the briefcase to be flagged, possibly tying it to Garrison; time to link McNeely and Reese to Garrison or some of his known operations. Time for Neal to contact him…

…or time for Neal to bleed to death in some dark hiding place he had crawled into.

How much time he was willing to let pass? How much he was willing to risk to make his case against Garrison, McNeely, and Reese? Was he willing to risk Neal's life for a case? He knew better than to try to deceive himself; he risked Neal's life for cases all the time. There was always danger when Neal went undercover. The people they pursued were criminals and often the kind that didn't consider murder outside of bounds. Each time he used Neal in that way, he was taking a chance with his life. He usually rectified the ugly truth of the fact by reminding himself that it was the arrangement they had agreed to. In fact, it had largely been Neal's idea. Instead of serving his time in prison, he would serve it doing the bidding of the FBI. And often, that bidding involved great personal risk.

He also lived with his decisions to send Neal into harms way by working very hard to minimize the risks. Between the team's meticulous planning and Neal's skills, things generally went off without a hitch. On those rare occasions when things did go wrong, with Neal's resourcefulness and a little luck, more often than not things got back on course, netting the bad guy in the process. It was often a tough call to make, but Peter usually stayed the course. Neal was brilliant at adapting to changing circumstances and Peter trusted him in situations where he would have pulled the plug if anyone else had been involved.

It sometimes tiptoed around in the back of Peter's mind that there was more to Neal's willingness to take chances with his life than just honoring their agreement. Neal could earn his keep with the FBI behind a desk; his ability to profile criminals and ferret out details others had missed was phenomenal. Neal complained about desk work, as he called it, and argued that he enjoyed the challenges of field work much more. He was the best undercover operative Peter had ever worked with even though he had received no formal training. Neal's training had been his life experiences and with him as a part of their team, they had earned the highest closure rate for any division. The team was proud of that distinction and Neal enjoyed the fact that it was largely attributed to his input. He basked in positive reinforcement, but especially when it came from Peter. Peter knew his approval mattered more to Neal than he liked to let on, and he often withheld it for that very reason. He told himself it was to keep Neal humble but feared that in the carrot and stick routine, he was more heavy with the stick than he should be. He also worried that approval seeking was an underlying factor in Neal's willingness to take chances with his life.

And now Peter had to determine a course of action, again with Neal's life in the balance. Revealing the truth would make Neal initially safer; the odds were that the NYPD would be the ones to find him. Conversely, it would increase the threat from Garrison and McNeely. It would give them warning about the case and the opportunity to cover their tracks. Garrison was vindictive and powerful; Neal would never be safe as long as he remained free.

In spite of everything, Neal had managed to keep the operation in play. Peter didn't want to be the one to drop the ball.

"Let's split the difference," Peter said in answer to the question he had asked in his own head.

"Jones, contact the NYPD and tell them that the description they gave matches Neal Caffrey. Tell them he is our CI and that we are unable to reach him." He paused,"Tell them we don't know why he was down there, but that his testimony is vital in a couple Federal cases, and this might be related. We need to talk to him to see if either case has been compromised so we need him in one piece."

"Basically, tell them not to shoot him on sight?" Jones commented.

"Exactly," he answered, "And get our people out there looking too. I will feel better if the NYPD knows big brother is watching."


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting. My work schedule is BRUTAL so getting those little alerts are often the high point of my day._

 _No story is White Collar without a Mozzie sighting. :)_

 **Chapter Five**

Peter looked at his watch; it was hard to believe it had been just under an hour since McNeely had made the call, and the manhunt for Neal Caffrey had begun. After talking to the pickpocket who had stolen Neal's watch, it seemed hard to believe that he had managed to vacate the area, but so far, there had been no sign of him. Neal had escaped from tighter situations during his years on the run from Interpol, the FBI, and various other law enforcement entities, but to Peter's knowledge, he had never done it after being shot.

While Jones contacted the NYPD, Peter made a call of his own. Garrison's men, the NYPD, and the FBI were all looking for Neal; there was only one other person to put on his trail. _Mozzie._

Mozzie had a network of contacts and resources that Peter didn't know or understand and legally, it was better that way. His methods were questionable, but one thing was not: he was a true friend and would use any means necessary to make sure Neal was safe. And right now, Peter would take all the help he could get on that front.

But to get in touch with Mozzie, he had to go through Elizabeth. It made no sense why Mozzie would provide her with a secret phone number and not him, but that was the way the relationship worked and he had learned to accept it. He needed to talk to Elizabeth anyway and let her know what had happened and that he would be late coming home if he came at all. He didn't look forward to telling either one the news about Neal; both would be upset. Elizabeth would be worried but sympathetic to Peter's feelings of guilt. Mozzie, on the other hand, would be worried and have no qualms about _adding_ to his feelings of guilt. And unfortunately in this case Peter had to agree with him. In football, it would have been the mistake of running before securing the ball. So focused on the impending take down of Garrison, making sure everything was in order, Peter had taken his eyes off of Neal. It was a rookie mistake and inexcusable.

The call with Elizabeth went much as he had expected it would. She was worried but encouraging. She tried to assuage his guilt by saying all the things he said to himself: _Neal knows the risks._ _It's all part of the job_. _Its what he signed up for_. And finally when none of those helped, she finished with _You'll find him_. He appreciated that she was always so easy on him, always gave him the benefit of the doubt. Mozzie, on the other hand, was not likely to do either. He hung up with Elizabeth and waited for the call.

After the calls were made, he and Jones climbed into the front of the van. Jones behind the wheel and Peter in the passenger seat beside him. He hated to ride in the van, but surveillance had been so difficult in the Warehouse district that he hadn't, for once, driven his own car.

"Do you think that's wise," Jones asked, glancing sideways at Peter. "Getting the little guy involved in this? There's no telling what he might do."

"Mozzie's always a wild card," Peter agreed, "but our chances, _Neal's chances_ , are better with him involved." He paused, "He can look under rocks we don't even know exist."

"Yes," Jones smiled, "And I bet some of those rocks come well-stocked with wine, too."

"Undoubtedly." The thoughts of Neal at one of Mozzie's safe houses brought a smile to Peter's lips as well. Any hideout of Mozzie's would be well stock with wine and be completely off the grid, thus accounting for Neal's lack of contact. He could just picture Neal, having only been grazed by McNeely's bullet, sipping wine and waiting for an opportunity to check in.

Of course, that didn't jive with the sick feeling in his gut or the report he had gotten about the extinct of Neal's injury. But still, just for a moment, it made him feel better to picture it.

Minutes later, his phone rang. After answering with his terse "Burke" he was silent several moments while Mozzie delivered the expected rant about how Neal's life had been less dangerous when he was an alleged criminal and how working for the FBI was going to get him killed. After the initial onslaught, Mozzie was ready to be filled in on the details. Just as Peter knew he would be, he was ready to offer assistance in locating their mutual friend. He said he would mobilize his own search team of the area and work his sources for any street chatter that might be related, and of course check under every known- _and unknown_ -rock Neal might have crawled beneath.

Back at the office, Peter instructed Jones to make the necessary arrangement to have any transactions involving the $150.000 flagged. The 1970 Bank Secrecy Act required banks and financial institutes to report withdrawals, deposits, or transfers that exceeded $10,000 to the federal government, so Peter figured it would be deposited in various accounts at amounts beneath that. But with the serial numbers flagged, it wouldn't matter where the money showed up or in what amounts. A documentable part of one lump sum, whoever had attempted to avoid that limit through restructuring in lesser amounts would be charged with a felony. With a little luck, the FBI might be able to take out Garrison and his laundry service as well.

Diana got to work on using her sources to dig discretely into McNeely and Reese. There was only so much they could do without warrants, and at the time, they had no grounds to request them. Once they found Neal and got a statement from him, they could get a judge onboard, and the real digging would begin. All the while, they were monitoring the police activity and any word on Neal.

Although not the news Peter had wished for, the news Mozzie delivered a couple hours later was still positive for the most part. Peter knew that the NYPD hadn't found Neal, but as Jones had pointed out, if Garrison's men found him first there would be no call in to acknowledge the fact. There likely wouldn't even be a body. Neal would just be gone. In spite of his continued verbal confidence that Neal was fine, in the back of his mind that thought had haunted him. What if Neal was already dead? What if he had been waiting for Peter to find him, and Garrison had found him instead? What if he had risked Neal's life and lost it? At least the call from Mozzie removed that fear.

"I have good news and bad news; which do you want first?"

"Bad news." By the tone of Mozzie's voice Peter knew it could only be so bad. Neal wasn't dead: anything short of that he could deal with.

"Word circulating in Garrison's organization is that there is a $10,000 reward to the man who kills Neal."

"How do you even know..." he stopped himself. It didn't matter how Mozzie could get that kind of information from someone within an organization the FBI had been trying to weasel into for six weeks. "Nevermind," he said. "The good news had better be really good."

"Good news is the offer is being kept in house for now; there isn't an open contract out." That _was_ good news. An open contract would inspire every thug in New York to go gunning for Neal. "The really good news," Mozzie continued, "is that it's not been collected. That means no one's found him; he's alive, just hiding somewhere."

"If Neal is hiding and doesn't want to be found, odd are that he won't be," Peter said. "Believe me, I know. I only caught him when he let me."

"Are you actually admitting that?"

"Yes," He liked to pretend that he had bested Neal in their three year battle of wits, but the truth is that Neal had surrendered; not technically but in every way that mattered. "but it worries me that he hasn't contacted either one of us yet."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Peter knew Mozzie was concerned about the same thing. "You have to take into consideration the neighborhood; he might not have access to a phone where he is," he volunteered. "He'll make contact as soon as he can."

"Unless he _can't,"_ Peter added darkly. Neal unconscious and bleeding was still a real fear. "He might not be able to call."

"Yeah, there's that, too. I will keep looking," he said quietly "I will call you if I find out any addition information."

"Good," Peter was suddenly more tired than ever. "Thanks, Mozzie. I knew I could count on you."

There was an odd silence at the other end of the line before Mozzie responded. "I will keep this phone with me, so you do the same, okay? Call me if anything happens."

Keeping a phone he had used to call Peter with was against Mozzie's standard operating procedure. Always a burn phone, it would normally be in the trash can before the call even disconnected. His concern for Neal outweighed his concern for his personal security.

"I will," Peter promised. Very rarily in agreement on anything, in this, at least, he and Mozzie were on the same side.


	6. Chapter 6

_Late update but not my fault: site was down and I was having a fit! May have more errors than usual since I didn't get my re-read edit time in yesterday. Forgive me, please._

 _Also,, one more 'Neal-less' chapter, but we will learn his fate in Chapter seven. Have Faith. :)_

 **Chapter Six**

When exhaustion began to hamper their ability to think clearly, the team reluctantly agreed to head home for a few hours rest. Peter opted to crash on the sofa in the break room; partially because he wanted to be close if something happened and partially because it felt wrong to go home and sleep in his bed when Neal was out there in trouble.

There wasn't much sleep for Peter. He tossed and turned when he did manage sleep it was pierced by nightmares. He was relieved when it was finally early enough to get up and start the coffee. He kept a go bag in his office, so he shaved in the bathroom, combed his hair and changed his shirt.

Peter was already on his third cup of coffee when the rest of the team, still looking bleary-eyed and weary, arrived at 7:45 am. The agents who had been monitoring the situation all night had left; there had been no developments. Where ever he was, it wasn't out in the open; out in the cold. That was something; Peter told himself. But the fact was that Neal was still missing.

Jones had come into his office to let him know that everything was in place to track the money from the briefcase. The serial numbers had been uploaded to all financial institutes, and the minute the money was deposited, they would be alerted. They finished their briefing and walked out on the catwalk just in time to see McNeely and Reese enter the doors at the far end of the room.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jones said beneath his breath. "What are they doing here?"

"If everything were on the up and up," he answered, "they would be trying to determine what Neal was doing behind that warehouse that would warrant such desperate actions as shooting at the NYPD."

"But things _aren't_ on the up and up," Jones replied, "So why are they really here?"

"To make a good show of doing their job," Peter replied confidently, "and to make sure we buy their story about what happened last night."

"So how are we going to play this?" Jones asked as the men made their way through the office towards the stairs that lead to where he and Peter were standing.

"They think Neal was down there on his own time to buy a stolen painting from Garrison; we go along with the assumption that it might be true."

"So we let them think Neal Caffrey might be tempted to commit a crime if an opportunity too good to pass up presented itself?" In spite of the seriousness of the situation, there was amusement in Jones' voice.

Peter looked at him. "That shouldn't be too hard to do, should it?"

"Well, it's quite a stretch," Jones chuckled, "but I will do my best."

"You know what Neal says, the best lies have an element of truth."

"Agent Burke," McNeely said as he approached Peter, "I guess you know by now that your missing CI is my missing suspect." He nodded to the man with him. "This is my partner, Daniel Reese. Daniel, this is Peter Burke."

Peter returned the gesture by introducing Jones. Hands were shook all around before Peter responded to McNeely's opening statement.

"Yes, I was notified last night that you had positively identified him." He paused. "I have to admit I was a little surprised you hadn't already; you met him a couple years ago. The same time you met me, in fact."

Peter knew that McNeely hadn't been happy when Peter had contacted the NYPD. Just as he had known they would, the NYPD had forwarded Neal's photo to McNeely, forcing him to make an ID. The suspect being identified as an asset of the FBI had caused stern warnings to go out to the rank and file, making Neal much safer, and McNeely, Reese, and Garrison less so. They had Neal rather not be taken alive. Alive, he would have a story to tell. Dead, only their story would matter.

"I might not have placed you right away, either, in the dark shooting at me," he replied easily. "Any idea what he was doing down in that area?"

Having a very good idea, Peter lied. "No, he didn't have clearance to be there. You said you found him while responding to a report of a suspicious person. What exactly was he doing?"

"He was loitering around the back side of one of the warehouses, possibly waiting to meet someone. When we approached and identified ourselves, he freaked out and started shooting."

"That doesn't sound like Caffrey," Peter said before he could stop himself. The lack of sleep and caffeine made him less adept at holding his tongue than usual. And even _usual_ , he wasn't that good at it. "He's not the _freakout and shoot_ kind. I've never known him to carry a gun."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Agent Burke," Reese chimed in, "but he was definitely carrying one last night."

"We're just trying to find out why he was down there," McNeely inserted, "I suppose you do random drug testing on your informants," McNeely looked at Peter questioningly. "Any chance he was down there trying to score?"

Possession of a firearm, firing on officers and now drug use. McNeely would say anything to discredit Neal. And of course, Peter had to go along with it.

"He's never had a problem with drugs," Peter replied, then paused as if a thought had occurred to him, "but he does show a penchant for brokering deals. It's possible he was down there doing a little business of his own."

"Knowing Caffrey it probably involved a stolen piece of art," Jones disapproving tone was quite convincing. "I've always thought he was dabbling in illegal activities. How else could he afford that wardrobe of his? Certainly not on what he gets from being a CI."

"That sounds reasonable," McNeely encouraged. Jones had scored with the stolen art comment. "That area is a hotbed of criminal activity; we've had our eyes on it for some time." McNeely continued. "It's a haven for drug trafficking and money laundering. A good place for business of that kind."

Peter had to bite his tongue at that; the man was providing protection for the very crimes he was describing. "Regardless of Caffrey's extracurricular activities, the bureau needs his testimony," Peter insisted. "We need to find him. _Alive."_ He paused, "How bad was he hit?"

"I aimed center mass," McNeely shrugged, "if it hadn't been for the rain, we could have probably tracked him by the blood trail." McNeely shook his head. "Must not have hit anything vital or he wouldn't have gotten far." He paused, "I still can't believe he got away from us." Those words were the most sincere that he had spoken since he had arrived. "He has to have help from someone. Any known associates? Anywhere he would run?"

Jones took that one. "No," he shook his head, "but I'm working on possibles. Speaking of which," he glanced at Peter, "I need to get back to my desk, sir, in case something comes up." Peter knew exactly what Jones was hoping would come up; a ping on those serial numbers. The banks had opened half an hour ago. Peter nodded and Jones made his exit.

"He didn't go home," Peter continued, "We sent agents there immediately." It was true; Peter had sent agents to June's early in the evening to keep the NYPD from storming the house in search of Neal. His preemptive move had worked; the closest the NYPD had come to her house was the surveillance car across the street.

"I know," McNeely admitted, "We've had plain clothes on the place in case he returned, but I didn't think he would." He looked at Peter "He knows the gig is up; he's can't come back from this."

"I hate it's come to this," Peter sighed, feigning disappointment. "I know he sometimes pushes boundaries, but he's done a good job; _we've_ done good." The fact that Peter believe the last part of that statement lent credence to his words.

He could see a glint of victory in McNeely's eyes. The man had come to cast a disparaging light on Neal Caffrey, and Peter and Jones had allowed him to think they shared his dim view of the man. The more confident McNeely became that he was in the clear, the more likely he was to make a mistake.

"You've had a good run with Caffrey," McNeely agreed "Closed a lot of cases. But I'm afraid the run is over."

"I know," Peter agreed. "If we do find him, his days of being a CI are over," Peter said, "The Bureau will terminate the agreement. After his testimony is finished up, he'll be sent back to prison."

"It's a shame, really," McNeely said, his sympathetic tone turning Peter's stomach "You gave him a chance, Agent Burke, and he blew it. An informant for the FBI sent back to prison." He shook his head with mock sadness. "He won't have a snowballs chance in hell in there."


	7. Chapter 7

_Posting early because I have a big event this weekend and can't put up a chapter until Monday. Thank you so much for reviewing, favoriting and following my story. It means more than you know. Unless you write fanfiction, and then, well, you_ **do** know _. :)_

 **Chapter Seven**

It was just after nine in the morning when Father Morelli heard something out of place. He had a candelabra in his hand and was on his way to place it in storage when the sound stopped him. At first, he didn't know what it was-a mouse or other rodent, or noise from the ancient furnace. As cold as it was, he was in fear of it giving up and quitting forever. His was a poor church, in the poorest part of town, and replacing a furnace would be quite an undertaking. He stopped to listen and after a moment he heard it again-a rustle and a groan. He sat the candelabra down and turned toward the door of the small room used for prop and set storage. The door was open slightly, and as he stood he there, he heard the sound of small movements, like someone in a restless sleep. He opened the door slowly and peered in. The gloom of the room hid everything from clear sight. He put his hand on the switch and heard a low moan. It was the sound of a person in distress. His fear evaporated into concern, and he flipped the switch.

Light flooded the room and Father Morelli saw him immediately. In the floor, near a large crate, lay a person covered with the dark fabric used to pad the wooden stage inserts that the church used each Christmas. Morelli's first thought was that it was a homeless drunk or drug addict; there was an abundance of both in this neighborhood. How they could have found their way into the church cellar, he had no idea, but he approached to give aid. He pulled the burlap back from the area where a tuff of dark hair was visible. He was met by the sight of a young man. Eyes closed, he was lying on his side, shivering in spite of his sweat drenched head. As he knel beside him, a homeless addict in drug withdrawal was his first thought. Yet his clothing was not consistent with the homeless; he was wearing what appeared to be a nice suit jacket and white shirt. Or what had once been a white shirt. Now it was dark red with dried blood, indicating an injury of some kind. His jacket was stiff with it, but there was also blood on the floor beneath his body. The rest of his clothing was up to par with his jacket. Although now ruined, it was clearly an expensive cut.

Father Morelli looked around the room; there was a trail of blood, mostly dried, from beneath one of the windows to where the man now lay. He had apparently entered through the window from the alleyway. Morelli sought to discover the severity of the injury and quickly realized the man had been shot. Although there was evidence of heavy bleeding, it had now, for the most part, stopped. A plaid piece of material, obviously not part of the man's standard clothing, had been tightly wedged inside his jacket, successfully stanching the flow of the blood. What fresh blood he could feel came from a wound in the man's back.

The man's pale face was not familiar to Father Morelli. With relief, he felt a wallet in the pocket, but before he would pull it out, the man's eyes flew open. He rolled away from Father Morelli's touch and with a groan of pain, scrambled to his feet. Once there, what strength adrenaline had supplied failed and he tottered into a stack of crates. He managed to regain his balance but only kept on his feet by leaning heavily against the crates behind him. He stared at Father Morelli in what could only be considered panic.

Dressed in clergy robes, Father Morelli would have thought the sight of him would have comforted the man instead of instilling fear. However, that was not the case. Father Morelli didn't take offense; the man was injured and with the unnatural shine in his eyes he wasn't sure he was coherent enough to be fully aware of his surroundings.

"It's okay," Morelli said soothingly, rising from his crouched position to stand in front of the man. "I'm not going to hurt you." He held his hand out, palms upwards, stepping closer. "I am just here to help." The man definitely needed help.

As Morelli tried to ease the fear in the young face, the man staggered, stumbling forward. Father Morelli found him in his arms, barely on his feet; head resting on his shoulder. Morelli could feel the dampness of the man's clothing as well as his trembling.

"They're looking for me," The man gasped out in a whisper, "They'll kill me if they find me." Not the response Morelli had anticipated, he helped the man to one of the crates and eased him down. He was shivering uncontrollably. Morelli reached down and snagged the fabric the man had been beneath, and draped it around the man's shoulders. How long ago had the man been shot, and how long had he been lying on the floor of the cellar?

No cell service in the cellar, he needed to go topside and call for help.

"I need to go upstairs and call for help; you need to get to the hospital."

"No," the man pleaded, "They'll know if you call; he'll be watching the hospital." The man swayed too weak to sit on his own; Father Morelli kept him in his grasp to steady him.

"If someone is trying to kill you," Father Morelli said calmly, "we need to contact the police; they can help you."

The man grasped Father Morelli's sleeve with fresh fear. The blue eyes were desperate. "No, not the police."

"Are you in trouble with the police too, then?" Someone trying to kill him and he was running from the police? The man's situation was indeed panic worthy, Morelli decided.

"No," the man shook his head, "I was working undercover," his voice was growing weaker, "Bad cops, tried to kill me. Can't call them; can't trust them. Please. Just let… me stay here until Peter comes." The man crumbled and would have fallen forward onto the floor had Father Morelli not been holding on to him. If the man was telling the truth, how he handled this could mean life or death. He eased him back down to the floor, and this time he pulled the wallet from the man's pocket. Maybe something there could provide answers.

Nick Halden. Although the semi-conscious young man before him looked a little worse for wear, he was the smiling man in the photograph. There were several credit cards bearing the same name, a key card to an expensive hotel in Manhattan, and seventy-four dollars in cash. He gently checked the man's other pocket for a phone, scrap of paper, anything, but found nothing else. The man had said he was working undercover and the idea of crooked police officers, although troubling, was unfortunately not unheard of. Especially in this neighborhood.

A church was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place of safety for those in trouble, and whether the man was lying or not, he certainly was in trouble. Was there any way to verify the man's story without giving him away? Who should he call?

While he quickly ran through a short list of law enforcement officers he knew, he left the man and returned moments later with a several blankets. The man's skin had felt cold and clammy; he was likely suffering from the onset of shock. He rolled up one blanket, and raising his legs slightly, placed it beneath his feet. He then moved back to the man and covered him thoroughly with the remaining blankets. There was a bluish tint to the young man's lips. His life might be in danger if he called 911, but his life was _certainly_ in danger if he didn't.

"Listen, son," Father Morelli said, trying to rouse the man out of his stupor, "I've got to go up and call for help; I will be right back."

"Please," he mumbled, "just let me stay here."

"I can't do that; If you just stay here, you'll die, do you understand?" Father Morelli said, then added as gently as he could. "I will go with you, okay? I won't leave your side."

"Peter will be here soon." The man said again. Whoever Peter was, the man was insistent he was coming.

"Is Peter supposed to _meet_ you here?" Father Morelli pressed, "Does he _know_ you're here?"

"He always knows where I am," the man whispered, eyes clouding over. "I have a tracking device in my watch."

"A tracking device?" Blood loss caused delerium, Morelli thought looking at Nick's bare wrists in confusion. " _In your watch?"_

"Yes, one in the briefcase, too, but I threw it at Garrison to get away." The man's words meant nothing to Father Morelli; he assumed it all had to do with whatever had transpired before finding his way into the church cellar. The blankets had eased the trembling and, looking almost peaceful, the man closed his eyes and mumbled, "I just have to stay out of sight until Peter finds me."

Working undercover; tracking device. Maybe that was why the man was so sure this Peter person was coming. But there was a problem with that assumption.

"Hey," he tapped the man's cheek, prompting the blue eyes to open again, "You aren't wearing a watch."

The peaceful expression was suddenly replaced with confusion, the man's hand moving to his wrist in disbelief. Realizing that Father Morelli was telling him the truth, the eyes grew fearful again.

"That's not good. You have to call him, then." His tone began to border on hysteria, "Call him, but don't call anyone but Peter."

"Okay," Father Morelli reassured, attempting to restore the calm that learning about the missing watch had disrupted, "but Peter who? How do I contact him?"

"Peter Burke, White Collar Division of the FBI."

"FBI?" Mark repeated incredulously. "You are working undercover _for the FBI?"_

"Yeah, that still sounds weird to me, too," there was actually a small smile on the blue lips, "Call Peter-he's the only one I trust. Tell him to hurry. And tell him I'm really sorry….sorry I lost the watch."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

It was only half an hour after McNeely and Reese left the office that the call for Peter came in.

"It's Father Morelli of St. Andrews," Jones announced to Peter. "He's on line one. He says he has important information but won't talk to anyone but you." The tone of Jones voice indicated that he, like Peter, knew that St. Andrews was within the area that NYPD had extensively searched the night before. Any information from that area likely had to do with Neal. He stepped over to his desk and picked up the phone, hoping the news from the other end of the line would be good.

"This is Peter Burke."

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line. "Do you know Nick Halden?"

"Yes, I know Nick," Peter said, the eyes of both Diana and Jones riveted to his face. "He's a friend. Do _you_ know him?"

"Not really," There again was a pause, "but I know where he is. He's here, at St. Andrews. He's hurt," he continued, "but he didn't want me to call anyone but you."

Neal was alive and at St. Andrews. The wave of relief that Peter felt at the news was so clear on his face that it transferred instantly to Jones and Diana, who were watching intently for an indication of what information he was receiving.

"How _bad_ hurt?" Neal had told Morelli to call him; that was a good sign.

"He's holding his own, but I don't know how much longer that will be the case. He's lost a lot of blood; he needs to get to a hospital."

"Did you call anyone else?" Peter asked, "911, Police?"

"No, just you," he paused again, "He said he worked with you and that you were the only person he trusted."

"That's good," Peter responded. Neal's trust hadn't been an easy thing to win. Neal, by his very nature, didn't trust anyone. "Tell him I am on my way." Peter hung up, looking at his team. "I know where Neal is." He announced.

"St. Andrews," Jones said impatiently, stating the obvious. "You want EMS to meet you there?"

There were looks of surprise on both Jones and Diana's faces when, instead of rushing out the door, Peter slowly sat down.

"No, I'll take care of that when I get there." As much as Peter wanted to see Neal, he knew he was at least safe for the moment. He needed a clear idea of how to proceed to make sure he stayed that way. There was still the matter of McNeely and the price on his head to deal with.

"Diana, I need you get together a team and go over to Mt. Sinai-they've worked with us before-and let them know that we are going to need their help again." He paused, formulating a plan. "Neal's going to be taken into custody and McNeely, and only McNeely is going to know which hospital he's admitted into."

"How can we control that?" Jones asked, "Once it goes out that he's been taken into custody the information is out there for everyone in the law enforcement community."

"I have an idea about that," Peter said, "I have a friend at the 31st; I think I can convince him to go along with me on this. It won't go out through the usual channels; He will just call McNeely to tell him he has his suspect in custody. McNeely will alert Garrison and Garrison will send someone to finish what McNeely started." He looked at Diana. "Get things set up at the hospital so we can get them when they try."

The logic was simple; catch Garrison's man in an attempt to kill Neal, then flip him on Garrison in exchange for a lesser charge. As the only one informed of Neal's whereabouts, the leak of information to Garrison could only be attributed to McNeely, verifying him to be Garrison's source. Add to that a statement from Neal regarding the events from the night before, and McNeely and Reese would be finished.

"Are we going to use Neal as bait?" Diana asked. He could tell by her tone that she didn't exactly like the idea. They had been concerned about the contract on Neal's head, and now they were basically serving him up for someone to come and collect.

"Yes, we are," Putting Neal in further danger stirred up underlying feelings of guilt, but it was still a workable plan. "But Neal is _already_ bait. They will come after him one way or another. It's up to us to make the trap as safe as possible and to catch the rat when it comes for the cheese."

 **Wcwcwcwcwcwc**

It seemed to take an long time to drive to the neighborhood that was home to the Church of St. Andrews. A plan underway, Peter made a few calls on the way; one to Elizabeth, one to Mozzie, and one to an old friend named John Carter. Carter had been in the NYPD for almost two decades, and Peter knew he was clean. For his plan to work, he would need some help.

Father Morelli met him in the entryway, and when Peter introduced himself and showed his badge, the man actually took it and verified that he was who he said he was. He then introduced Carter, who also produced his badge.

"He was insistence that I only talk to you," the Father said to Peter. "He might just be paranoid, but if what he told me was true about who shot him," he glanced almost accusingly at Officer Carter "he has a right to be."

"He does have a right to be," Peter answered, "But I trust Detective Carter, and I need his help. How is he?"

"Not good; he needs to be in the hospital," Father Morelli replied, repeating what he has said on the phone. Traveling through the sanctuary and into a back hallway, soon they were descending a narrow staircase. He lead the men to a doorway. "He's in here. I couldn't get him upstairs."

Even though Peter didn't expect to find Neal relaxing and sipping wine as in his previous 'finding Neal' fantasy, he had constructed a scenario less disheartening than the one he found inside the church storage room.

After talking to Father Morelli, being told that Neal had instructed the man on who to call, Peter had expected to at least find Neal upright and conscious. It was with that in mind that he had brought the digital recorder. A recorded statement from Neal about what had happened during the undercover operation would generate probable cause to obtain warrants to access McNeely and Reese's phone, internet and financial records. Already with access to Garrison's, it would be a matter of time until some connections could be uncovered.

After explaining the plan and recording a statement from Neal, he would have then sent him to the hospital in the custody of Detective Carter of the NYPD. Carter would then make the call to McNeely, putting the plan into action. Diana was already onsite at the hospital, getting everything in place to lay a trap when Garrison went after Neal. In the meantime, Peter would get all the paperwork and Neal's statement in front of a judge, afterward leaving Jones to handle the digging and tracing. His plan had been to get to Mt. Sinai as quickly as he could himself; even though Diana had over a dozen undercover agents in place to watch Neal, Peter planned to be there too. Again, he was putting Neal in danger and this time, he wasn't taking his eyes off him.

The sight of Neal on the floor with blankets tucked around him put at least some of that plan in jeopardy. But it wasn't the thoughts of adjusting the plan that sent dread through Peter; it was the stillness of his friend. Neal was never still.

He quickly went to Neal and knelt beside him. His eyes were closed and he looked alarmingly pale against the dark blanket that he was lying on. And still. So very still.

"Where was he hit?" Peter asked, moving the blanket down to assess the damage. His breath caught at the sight of dried blood that caked his shirt.

"His shoulder," Father Morelli supplied, "through and through. I found him on the floor this morning," He motioned to an alarmingly large blood stain on the cement floor. "He must have crawled in through a window sometime last night."

Peter put his hand on Neal's forehead, his skin was cold and clammy; that was not a good sign. He did not respond to his touch. Father Morelli read his concern and nodded in understanding. "I've done what I can to help with shock, elevated his legs and tried to keep him warm. The bleeding has mostly stopped, but he's lost a lot already. His lips are blue."

It was true; there was a distinct bluish tint to Neal's lips.

"Carter," Peter said, "Go up and use the church phone and call a bus. Don't give any specifics; just say that a man collapsed," he turned and met the man's eyes "I don't want any information that will alert them that it's Neal."

"Understood," Carter didn't seem to take offence that the _them_ was in fact the NYPD. He was already moving through the door. Father Morelli joined Peter beside Neal, both concerned and confused about the current situation.

"Neal," Peter kept his voice calm "Can you hear me?" His optimistic feeling had dropped at the sight of Neal on the floor, and it dropped even further with his lack of response. The thought of what would have happened if it had been one of Garrison's men, intent on collecting $10,000 that had found Neal ran through his mind. What luck it had been that instead it had been Father Morelli and that he had listened to Neal's request and called him instead of the police.

"You did the right thing, not calling anyone but me," He looked at Morelli, "but how did you know that was the right thing to do?" Given Neal's injury and his condition, any reasonable person would have called an ambulance and followed with a call to the police. Even in Peter's judgement, that would have been the correct protocol given the situation. But Father Morelli had departed from that.

"He asked me not to," Morelli answered simply, "He's clearly afraid for his life and his story, well, let's just say I'd rather err on the side of safety than to do something to get him killed."

"That decision might have saved his life," Peter admitted, a thought coming to him "but to keep him safe, I need you to do something else for me." He reached into his pocket and produced a digital recorder. "Can I get a brief statement from you?" Peter asked. Any statement might be helpful to establish probable cause and Neal obviously wasn't able to supply one. He had told the Father something relevant about the incident or it would have been the NYPD here instead of him.

"Certainly," he responded, "Anything you need."

"Thank you." Peter clicked on the recorder, stated his name, the date, and the location. "Those present, Myself, Agent Peter Burke FBI, Father Morelli of St. Andrew's Church and Neal Caffrey CI for the FBI. Detective First Class John Carter of the 31st precinct is also on the scene but has left the room to call for medical assistance."

"I thought his name was Nick," Morelli commented after Peter's opening.

"Long story," Peter said, "Short version, Nick Halden, undercover, Neal Caffrey FBI CI." He held out the recorder. "Father Morelli, did Mr. Caffrey disclose any information to you about the circumstances of his injury or the events of the past twenty-four hours?"

"Yes," he began, "he said he was working undercover for the FBI and that… _dirty cops_ had shot him. He said they were looking for him and would kill him if they found him." He paused, recalling the exchange. "He said I couldn't call 911 or the police-that he didn't trust them and that he needed to wait here for Peter to find him."

"Wait for me to find him," Peter repeated quietly, his eyes on Neal. Neal's confidence touched him; he hated he had been unable to live up to it and that Neal had spent the night alone, bleeding on the cold floor of the church cellar. As he watched, Neal's breathing was becoming more labored.

"What else?"

"He said he had a tracking device in his watch, and one in his briefcase, but that he," he paused, "he threw the briefcase at someone named _Garrison?_ That's when I told him he wasn't wearing a watch, and he told me to call Agent Peter Burke, White Collar Division FBI. He said not to talk to anyone but you." He paused, "and he said to tell you he was sorry he lost the watch."

"He didn't lose it; it was stolen from him." Neal as a victim of a pickpocket would have been humorous in any other circumstances. "Is that all?"

"That's it," he said, glancing up as Carter re-enter the room. "He lost consciousness after that and has been in and out ever since."

Since their arrival on the scene, it had been more out than in but apparently the sound of their voices was bringing him to some level of consciousness. There was movement; a groan escaped his lips.

The recording temporarily forgotten, Peter focused his attention on Neal. "Neal, it me, it's Peter," Getting no immediate response, Peter put his hand on Neal's forearm and squeezed gently. "Neal, Can you hear me?"

"Medics are on their way," Carter supplied quietly, having joined Peter and Morelli. "ETA seven minutes."

Peter nodded in acknowledgement but didn't look up at the man. His attention was on Neal. "You did good, hiding and waiting for me," Peter said to him, "I'm sorry it took so long, but I'm here now, and everything is going to be okay."

Peter was encouraged when Neal responded to his words but less so when the usual bright eyes were cloudy and unfocused. Peter wasn't sure Neal was aware that he was there and for some reason, it was really important to Peter that he know. He had trusted that Peter would come; that Peter would find him and he wanted him to know that trust was not misplaced. The eyes were only open a moment before they fluttered closed once again. Peter had been worried about Neal for almost seventeen hours, but right now, seven minutes seemed like a long time.


	9. Chapter 9

_This originally was two chapters but since they were both short, I decided to just string them together into one longer one. Thanks again for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting this story._

 **Chapter Nine**

"Father Morelli," Peter said quickly, "Go up and wait for the medics to arrive."

With a nod of assent, the Father rose from his position beside Neal and exited the room. "I will bring them straight down when they get here."

"Thank you," Peter responded before turning his attention back to his friend. "Neal?" He moved his hand from Neal's arm and instead took hold of his chin, turning it to face him. "Open your eyes; I need you to wake up." Peter's tone conveyed the urgency he felt; He needed for Neal to know he was there. "I'm here, Neal, I need you to look at me."

The tone of Peter's voice cut through Neal's foggy mind. His eyes opened again and this time, focused enough to find Peter's face. The brows furrowed. "Peter?" The voice was weak and uncertain. "Is that you?"

Both relieved and encouraged by Neal's recognition, Peter released his chin. "Yes, it's me. I'm here," he said again. "You're going to be okay now," Peter assured him.

"I am so glad you're here, Peter," Neal said, eyes closing in relief. "I was afraid they'd find me first."

"I know, Neal, but they didn't; you're safe." Since Neal was conscious, Peter decided to make an attempt at a statement while they waited for medics to respond to the call. Without taking his eye's off of Neal's weak ones, he handed the recorder to Detective Carter. "Record this," he said quietly over his shoulder.

"Neal," began again, placing his hand on Neal's forehead "If you can, I need a statement from you, okay? I need you to tell me…."

"I didn't cut my anklet," Neal interrupted, suddenly grabbing at Peter's arm, his voice sharp in its insistence, his tone desperate. "I don't know what happened, but it's gone."

Neal's words caught Peter off guard; perhaps his lucidity wasn't as clear as he had first assumed. He disengaged Neal's hand from his arm and placed it back on the mattress. He let his own hand rest reassuringly across Neal's before responding. "I know you didn't cut your anklet, Neal, you didn't have it on," Peter reminded him. "You were working on a case, do you remember?"

"But you still found me," Neal continued as if he hadn't heard Peter.

"Yes; you had Father Morelli here call me." Peter's tone was gentle. "I need you to try to focus, Neal." He squeezed Neal's hand, "You were working the Garrison case. We sent you in with $150,000 to buy a painting, do you remember that?"

"Yes, a Degas," Neal whispered, "and I didn't even get to see it."

Reassured by the moment of clarity, Peter pressed on. "What happened when you got to the warehouse?"

"It was Scott McNeely, Peter," the desperate tone returned with the memory of the incident. "He was there. He…he _shot_ me."

That was one name Peter had been waiting for. "Did you recognize anyone else?"

"No, just him. I didn't know his partner," he answered weakly, "He shot me, and…and I had to run," he continued, "I forgot where you were…." He frowned, "I didn't know where I was…."

Peter tried to bring Neal's rambling mind back to the topic. "What happened when you saw McNeely at the warehouse? Why did he shoot you?"

"He was there when we got there. Garrison said he handled security for him," Neal's voice was weak. "He met me on a case a couple years ago, and he…he recognized me…." He clenched his eyes as if to clear his thoughts, or perhaps vision, before continuing. "I told him I was freelancing, you know, to earn a little extra money on the side and that his secret was safe with me."

Just as they had guessed he would, Neal had thought quickly on his feet, attempting to save the operation. He was also probably trying to keep McNeely from shooting him, but that part of the plan apparently hadn't worked. "Did he not believe you?"

"Yeah, he believed me," Neal answered, "He said…he said that if an investigation were going on…he would have known about it." The two minute statement from the Father had now grown into a five minute statement. With each question and answer, Peter could see that Neal's condition was growing worse, the memory of the events from the night before causing him additional anxiety. He had been lying quietly when Peter first knelt beside him; now he was trembling in spite of the blankets. His breathing had become more and more irregular.

"Agent Burke," Detective Carter, observing the change in Neal's condition, lowered the recorder. "We've got enough. Let him rest."

"but he said he…" Neal's voice was barely audible, "he had to kill me anyway."

"It's okay, Neal, you are safe now, just try to relax," Peter kept his voice calm and reassuring. "I'm going to take care of this; everything is going to be alright."

Peter looked up at Carter. The man had said few words since he had entered the cellar and their preceding conversation had been brief. To help with this plan, Carter would be required to climb pretty far out on a limb. The NYPD didn't look favorably on Federal Agents interfering in their jurisdictions or questioning their officers; they would look even less favorably on one of their own participating in such a transgression.

"Carter, are you okay with this?"

His friend nodded grimly, "Yes, I am more than okay with this."

Peter nodded at the recorder in Carter's hand. "Neal's statement will get us access to McNeely's financials, telephone and anything else. Since Reese was there and is backing McNeely's story, the judge might release his info as well."

Carter shook his head, "I never liked McNeely; anytime we've ever crossed paths I just got a bad feeling, you know?"

"What, do you have a bad guy radar?" Peter asked.

"I wish. It sure would make my job easier." He looked at Neal, "Your boy Caffrey, convicted felon working for the FBI, shot while undercover by an NYPD officer working for a crime boss. People aren't always what they appear to be, are they?

"No," Peter agreed, his gaze turning back to Neal, "they most definately are not."

WCWCWCWCWC

Interview finished and recorder back in Peter's coat pocket, he and Carter waited for help to arrive. Peter had kept his position beside Neal, trying to keep him calm and still. It was becoming more difficult; he was restless and seemed to be growing more and more anxious. Peter had tucked the blankets tightly around him, hoping to ease the trembling that still shook his body.

"He said he'd shoot me committing a crime," Neal's state of mind had deteriorated; anxiety made his voice sharper than it had previously been. "He said you'd be disappointed but you wouldn't be surprised….is that true?"

"No, its not true." Peter let his hand rest on Neal's forehead, smoothing his damp hair back gently, trying to offer comfort. "He doesn't know me; doesn't know us. He thought you were there committing a crime; that's what you told him remember? Just try to relax, okay?"

"He said he had a perfect service record and I….I was a criminal," Neal continued to ramble, voice unsteady. "It's like he...he could just kill me and no one would care."

Peter continued to rub his head gently but felt his face flush at the hurt tone in Neal's voice. "That's not true, either, Neal-" Peter stopped at the sound of the ambulance outside, relieved that soon help would arrive. "Listen, Neal," Peter said, "Father Morelli is bringing the medics down here. They are going to fix you up and make you feel a lot better."

Neal's eye's had closed but now opened in fear, "No, no hospital."

"It's okay," Peter motioned for Carter to come close, "No one is going to hurt you, do you understand?"

"McNeely will if he finds me," Neal whispered, "Or send Garrison's men to do it." Peter expected the same; in fact, that was what their plan depended on. He felt it best not to share that information with Neal. He was scared enough already.

"I am not going to let that happen," Peter assured him, "We have a plan to get him, Neal, but to do that, I have to let Detective Carter here take you in." He studied Neal's anxious face. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

Neal's gaze shifted to Carter's face in concern. "Detective Carter…Taking me in?" Whatever comfort Peter had managed to provide Neal evaporated into fresh apprehension. "I didn't do anything, Peter," he pleaded, "why is he taking me in?"

"Neal, it's just part of the plan, we have to let….." Peter realized that in Neal's current state of mind explanations were pointless. He sighed. "You are just going to have to trust me, okay?"

"I _do_ trust you, Peter," he looked at Detective Carter before his eyes fixed again on Peter's face, "but _only_ you." His voice was now bordering on hysteria. "You take me in."

"I can't, Neal, if McNeely sees me, it will compromise the plan to trap him." It pained Peter to see Neal's fear, but it really had to be this way. He heard the medics clamoring with their equipment down the narrow stairs.

"Please, Peter," Neal's voice dropped to a whisper, "I don't trust him to take me in; I don't trust anyone but you."

"Look, Burke," Detective Carter said quietly, "He doesn't have to understand the plan for it to work, hell, he doesn't even have to know about it. It might even be best; his reactions to being in custody will be genuine."

"I know," Peter answered, "that's what worries me. If he don't know what's happening he isn't going to react well." He paused, then almost as an afterthought added, "He doesn't trust people and it taken a lot to gain even a little of it. He thinks he safe with me and I don't want to ruin that."

"I understand," Carter said, "but it can't be helped. When its all over and he's safe, you can explain it all. The Medics will probably give him something for pain; he'll be drugged out of his mind. With a little luck, by the time he is aware of what is going on, it will be all over."

Peter recognized the reason in Detective Carter's words, but still tried to offer some reassurance to Neal.

"Neal," Neal hand felt strangely cold when Peter took it in his own, "You trust me, and I trust Detective Carter," He paused, "That means you can trust him too, okay? He has to be the one to take you in."

"Peter, I _can't_ trust him," his voice was pleading, his eyes looking at Carter in apprehension.

Peter squeezed Neal's hand with a firmness that matched his voice.

"I promise you, Neal, if I didn't trust him I wouldn't let him take you. You _can_ trust him."

"I'll try." With both resignation and exhaustion, Neal closed his eyes. Peter knew the reluctant words were more to please him than anything.

Peter looked at Detective Carter. "Agent Berringer will have everything in place when you get to Mt. Sinai. When you are close, make the call, and then just follow procedure until we are back in touch."

"I can handle that." Detective Carter paused, "He thinks a lot of you, you know. You seem more like his friend than his handler. His best friend, even."

"Yeah," Peter admitted, "It complicated. I'm his handler, and he's my CI, but we're friends, too. Sometimes we even feel like family."

"A little unconventional, isn't it?" Carter commented, "Do you think having that kind of…relationship with a criminal informant is wise?"

Peter's sigh was deep. "Probably not, but it's way too late to do anything about it now."

Their conversation was interupted by the arrival of the medics. "What do you mean, he's been shot?" The voice of one of the medics carried into the room "Dispatch didn't say anything about a gunshot wound."

"Well, he has been," Father Morelli replied, "He's lost a lot of blood."

"We are required to make notification in cases of a GSW. Todd," he said as they came through the doorway, "Go radio it in; they will want an officer on scene, I'll get started with him."

"That won't be necessary," Detective Carter said, stepping towards the men. Todd halted at his words, a questioning look on his face.

"I'm afraid it is," he answered, "It's a legal thing." His eyes went from Carter to where Peter was kneeling beside Neal. "Who are you guys, anyway?"

Carter produced his badge. "Detective John Carter, NYPD and this is Agent Peter Burke of the FBI," he smiled at the expression on the man's face. "I think we have the _officer on scene_ part covered. "


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Let me see that," the medic took the badge and looked at it before handing it back to Detective Carter. "So what's the story here?" he asked, glancing past him to where Neal lay on the floor. "Why the false report?"

Carter, putting away his badge, provided the man an answer. "We have a situation here that needs to be handled very carefully." He gestured at Neal. "We don't want information about this man's location, condition or destination going out on the wire. We need to carefully control the flow of information about him. It's very important and for his protection, do you understand?"

"Yeah I understand," the medic answered. "But I will need a badge number- _both_ of your badge numbers, to go on my paperwork before we transport."

"Not a problem," Detective Carter replied, stepping aside as the men made their way to their patient. Neal was now lying quietly but still shivering beneath the blankets. His eyes were open, but he didn't seem to be especially responsive to his surroundings. Peter released Neal's hand and stood up.

"So, who's the patient?" The first medic asked as he approached. "Do you know if he has any drug allergies or medical conditions we should be aware of?"

"His name is Neal Caffrey," Peter answered. "He has no allergies and the only medical condition he has right now is a gunshot wound."

The medic ignored Peter's sarcasm, his attention caught by the puddle of dried blood a few feet away. He looked at Peter. "His?"

At Peter's curt nod, the medic took the place previously occupied by Peter and opened the supply case, unpacking several items. "How long has he been here? When did the shooting happens?"

"Since sometime last night?" Father Morelli answered, looking at Peter uncertainly. "I found him here this morning."

"The report of the shooting came in at about five yesterday evening," Peter clarified, "We believe he hid in here shortly after that." That was nearly seventeen hours ago.

He placed an oxygen mask over Neal's nose and mouth then pulled down the blanket to have a look. His attention immediately went to the injury in Neal's upper right chest area.

"He's lucky," he said quietly and at Peter's look explained, "If the bullet had even nicked a major artery he'd been dead long before now."

He looked at the other medic, head motioning in the direction of the blood stain. "Shock; possible hypovolemia, get his vitals, check his pressure and push fluids." The other man, having taken up his position on the other side with his own case, followed the instructions as the first one did a cursory examination of the wound. Using scissors, he cut away what clothing he could to have a better look. The medic's movements caused small grunts of pain to escape Neal's lips at times. "Penetrating, front to back, GSW through the upper right thoracic region," He said quietly, "Probable damage to the collarbone and Scapula, muscle and tendon injury."

"Decreased systolic BP, narrowed pulse pressure," his partner chimed in. "Marked tachycardia. Chills, Pale, moist skin." He placed his hand on Neal's forehead and checked his pupils "Depressed mental status, but pupils are responsive; Starting IV." He glanced at Neal's injury. "I will need over there, John."

The men switched places, and while one started an IV, the other spoke to Neal. Other than a few grunts of pain, Neal had given little response to the medics as they evaluated his condition. Peter had been concerned about Neal's agitated state; now he was more concerned with his apparent apathetic one.

"He was more responsive before," Peter informed with concern, "I even got a statement from him. He's gotten worse in just the last few minutes."

"Young, physically fit victims compensate to blood loss well until in extreme distress," He explained, "at that point, their conditions will rapidly deteriorate. It's a good thing he was discovered when he was. Mr. Caffrey," the medic's voice was authoritative and Neal's eyes, which had been dull and unfocused, moved to find his face. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Neal's voice was barely audible beneath the mask, but his expression was one of confusion. "Who are you?"

"My name is John, and that," he nodded at his partner, "Is Todd. We are here to help you. We're giving oxygen to help you to breath a little easier and an IV to get your blood volume up. We are going to stabilize your arm, and then transport you to the hospital. Do you understand?"

Neal shook his head slowly, apathy giving way again to anxiety. "No hospital" he whispered, "Call Peter Burke; he'll know what to do."

Neal's disorientation had obviously increased; he had already forgotten that Peter was even there. If he didn't remember Peter being there, there was no way he remembered any of his reassurance about being taken in by Detective Carter. The medic looked at him. "Didn't you say you were Peter Burke?"

"I'm here, Neal," Peter said, moving so Neal could see him. "You _did_ call me. Everything is fine, but you need to go to the hospital now."

"Peter," He breathed, the relief at rediscovering Peter's presence obvious. "Are you going there with me?" The hopefulness in his tone tugged at Peter's heart; he hated to disappoint him.

"We just talked about this, remember? Detective Carter has to be the one to go with you."

Neal grew anxious at his words and Peter rushed on "But I will be close by, I promise." He didn't feel guilty for his answer because he hadn't really lied. He would be close by as soon as humanly possible.

Peter's words restored Neal's calm, and after the medics had stabilized his shoulder, they moved him onto the stretcher. His eyes were now closed. They placed their cases at Neal's feet and moved him from the cellar to where the ambulance was waiting outside; Peter, Father Morelli and Detective Carter followed them up.

"Thank you for everything, Father," he said to Morelli as they climbed the stairs to the sanctuary. "You saved his life by finding him and then again by calling me when he asked you too."

"I'm just glad he was _able_ to ask me," Morelli replied. "Let me know how he is, you know, once all this…intrigue is over, will you?"

"We will," Carter answered, "as soon as things are-" he paused "settled and its safe. Caffrey's lucky you're the one who found him. There's a lot of less desirable people looking for him and believe me, he wouldn't have fared well if they had found him instead."

"I don't call it luck," Father Morelli smiled at the man. "I call it _divine intervention_."

"Whatever you call it," Peter replied, "it's appreciated. Thank you, and we will be in touch."

They had reached the ambulance; the doors were opened, and they were readying to load Neal into the back.

"Detective Carter will be accompanying him to the hospital," Peter stated.

"I'm sorry," The medic began, "but our regulations are clear…."

Peter interrupted him by presenting his badge this time. "As the Agent in charge of this operation, I am authorizing you to break them. Detective Carter will be accompanying him."

"Agent _in Charge_ Peter Burke." the man stated humorously.

"Yes, White Collar Division of the FBI," Peter affirmed, "And he needs to go to Mount Sinai."

"That's in Astoria," the medic replied. "NYH is much closer."

"Yes, but our people are in place at Mt. Sinai," Peter insisted, "and that's where we need him to go."

"Flow of information, Agent in Charge, people in place?" he looked at Neal, "What is he, a secret agent, like James Bond, or something?"

Peter couldn't help the small burst of laughter that escaped him at that; he was glad Neal wasn't in any condition to register the comment. He'd never hear the end of it, especially if Neal heard his answer.

"Yeah, something like that."


	11. Chapter 11

_A bit early but my work schedule demands it._ _Thanks for reading and reviewing, and all the helpful suggestions. :)_

 **Chapter Eleven**

The ride to the hospital was a hectic one. The back of the transport was crowded and Carter tried to stay out of the way as the medic, having gotten a blood type from Burke along with his badge number and a signature, hung plasma to offset the blood loss. Shears had already been used to cut away the blood soaked jacket and shirt, but now the process of removing the material from where it had caked to Caffrey's wounds began. Although Caffrey had been in a semi-conscious state since leaving the church, this task elicited grunts of pain from his lips. The medic spoke reassuringly to his patient but went about his work, using a saline solution to loosen the fabric as best he could to lessen the discomfort. Just as Father Morelli had expected, disturbing the wounds in such a way resulted in fresh blood loss, but the medic handled it efficiently, cleaning the areas and applying temporary bandages.

"What are you doing?" Caffrey mumbled; eyes still closed. His slow and uncoordinated attempt to move his hand to the oxygen mask was easily intercepted by the medic.

"Mr. Caffrey," he said firmly but clearly, "We are transporting you to the hospital. You need to keep this arm still and keep the oxygen in place."

Caffrey pulled against the medic's grasp, but in his weakened state his strength was soon spent, his hand falling back to its place. "I can't go to the hospital," he insisted, "They'll find me there." At first a tone of simple complaint, the tone now had the underpinning of fear.

"Anxiety and paranoia are one of the symptoms of excessive blood loss," the medic explained, glancing at Carter curiously, "but I'm guessing this guy has some legit reasons for his paranoia, doesn't he?"

"You know the saying 'Its not paranoia if they are really out to get you?" Carter asked, "Well, that definitely applies here. Can you give him something to help calm him down?" he looked at Neal's anxious face, "I'm afraid what is coming is just going to upset him more."

"His pressure has stablized so I can give him something to take the edge off, but nothing stronger," the medic replied. "What's coming?"

"For our plan to work, I have to arrest him," Carter replied regrettably, "and let the hospital handle him as a prisoner."

"Yeah, I can see how that's not going to help his anxiety level."

The medic administered the medication and, already in a weakened condition, it seemed to work almost immediately. Neal's eyes, which before were anxious, grew dull, and his restlessness ceased. Since they were nearing the hospital, when Caffrey's eyes closed, Carter slipped the cuff on his wrist as quietly and gently as he could. He fastened the other to the rail. He hoped that the man would remain blissfully unaware. He had reassured Burke that by the time Caffrey emerged from his sedated state; the ruse would be over, and Garrison and company would be in custody. He just hoped that would turn out to be true.

He hated to put on restraints, but it was protocol. Regardless of the mitigating factors, Neal Caffrey was a fugitive in custody. Police procedure dictated that a suspect receiving medical treatment be kept under constant supervision and hospital procedure dictated that anyone suspected of a violent crime be restrained. On paper, Neal Caffrey fit both of these criteria. But even more importantly than that, for the plan to work, everything about the arrest had to appear by the book when McNeely and Reese arrived on the scene. That included a restrained suspect.

Finishing that unpleasant task, Carter moved on to the next one and made the call he had been instructed to make.

"McNeely," came the brusque answer at the other end of the line.

"Yes," Carter began, "This is Detective John Carter at the 31st. I'm fairly certain I have your suspect from last night in custody."

"Caffrey?" McNeely sounded less than pleased, "You have Neal Caffrey in custody?"

"Pretty sure it's him," Carter answered, "He's unconscious and has no identification on him, but he matches the description and has a GSW in his upper chest area. He was found in the basement of a church just two blocks from where the incident occurred. Apparently he crawled in a window, and staff found him there this morning."

"What's his condition?" McNeely asked, "Likely or unlikely?"

"The medics have stabilized him," Carter answered, "but he's lost a lot of blood. We are in route to Mt. Sinai with him now."

There was a pause. "Have you alerted the Feds? His handler, Agent Burke, will have to be informed."

"Already called Agent Burke," Carter said, "He can't come right now; He's tied up with a case but told me to update him as soon as I know anything."

"Well, he can wait around if he wants to," McNeely said, "But I'm on my way; I want a word with Mr. Caffrey myself."

Carter finished the call, pleased that McNeely seemed to accept his report of the situation and was on his way to the hospital. He could only imagine what 'word' he wanted with the man he had tried to kill. He looked down and was surprised to find Caffrey's eyes locked on the badge he wore on his belt. The expression was one of barely contained panic; the badge might as well have been a snake about to strike. That he could look so ready to spring from the gurney and run was impressive since he had just been injected with a sedative. Burke had said that Caffrey would not take being in NYPD custody well, and he hadn't been mistaken; with the degree of desperation in the man's face Carter was actually glad he had restrained him.

Of course, given Caffrey's latest experience with the NYPD, Carter knew he had reason to be alarmed about his situation. Burke had tried to explain the plan, but Caffrey had been unable to grasp it. Realizing that, Burke had given up with explanations and simply asked the man to trust him. Surprisingly, it seemed to have worked; Caffrey had calmed down. In spite of his clear distrust, he had accepted the Detective's presence based solely on his faith in Agent Burke.

But Burke was no longer present, and Caffrey obviously didn't remember the previous exchange between them. At the sight of the badge, and the realization that he was now cuffed to the gurney, Caffrey's tenuous grasp on trust had quickly slipped away.

Burke's protectiveness for his CI had seemed odd to Carter at the church, but now he could see how those feelings could be triggered. Already one to appear younger than his age, at the present Caffrey barely looked out of his teens. He seemed both confused and frightened. He could see why, having gained the man's trust, Burke didn't want to betray it. He reached down to give comfort and winced when Caffrey flinched at his touch.

"Caffrey," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and reassuring like Burke had done earlier. "Everything's going to be alright. Just trust me, okay?"

Whatever reaction he had expected it wasn't this; the blue eyes leaped to meet his, the expression in them going from fearful to hurt in seconds. Caffrey tightly closed his eyes before the tears that had welled up in them could spill over.

"I don't trust anyone," he whispered.


	12. Chapter 12

_This is mostly a repeat of the last chapter, but from a different point of view. Thanks for reading._

Chapter Twleve

There had been flashes of seemingly unrelated things running through Neal's mind on and off for some time. Interspersed with periods of nothingness, sometimes he was in darkness and other times he was in the light. At times he felt cold, wet and in pain; other times warm and almost comfortable. Sometimes he was fearful and sometimes he felt safe and secure. The impressions didn't seem to follow any order. Everything seemed disjointed and disconnected.

Images of events, and people too were a part of his muddled recollections. Some of them he was certain were real; others not so much. He remembered Garrison and McNeely, and the look on the latter's face when he was recognized Neal. He also clearly remembered the chaos when he tossed the briefcase of money at Garrison and moved backwards, exiting the door. There had been a shot and a hard thud on his shoulder. It had knocked him the rest of the way through the doorway. There had been angry shouts, muffled by the heavy door when he had closed it and dropped the bolt into place. Those memories, punctuated by the throbbing pain in his shoulder, were fairly clear and genuine. McNeely had shot him. He guessed that was why his memory of things after that were much less reliable. Being shot messed with a person's sense of recall.

Running in the rain, lying on the pavement and the piercing sounds of police cars were mixed in with a man in a Priest costume, someone riffling through his pockets, people putting a mask over his face and pulling at his clothing and Peter. He remembered Peter, beside him looking concerned instead of angry, telling him to trust him. The man in a Priest costume seemed like some kind of illusion, and he was beginning to fear his memory of Peter was the same thing. That brief memory of Peter was all that he had. Peter had said everything would be okay, but things were far from okay. He was afraid that Peter, like the Priest, had just been a figment of his addled mind.

One thing he was quite sure was not a figment of his addled mind; he was in an ambulance, and his arm was cuffed to the rail of the gurney. If that was not alarming enough, clipped to the belt of a man sitting beside him, was an NYPD badge. Big as life only two feet away from Neal's now wide eyes, that shiny piece of metal was another clear indication that nothing about his current situation fit into the category of okay. It had been wishful thinking that Peter had been the one to find him; probably generated because Peter finding him was the only way any of this could have ever been okay.

He stole a quick glance at the man's face; NYPD but not McNeely or his partner. The man was presently speaking on his phone in low tones that seemed out of place in the back of an ambulance. Neal thought there were rules about using cell phones near medical equipment but apparently this guy didn't care. After all, the rules didn't apply to some member of law enforcement, did they?

His gaze shifting again to the shiny badge, he tried to concentrate on the man's words. "Pretty sure it's him," the man was saying, "He's unconscious and has no identification on him but he matches the description and has a GSW in-" the sudden inflating of the blood pressure cuff on his arm and its incessant beeping drowned out some of the words. "….lost a lot of blood. We are on route to Mt. Sinai with him now."

There was a brief pause, the man's next words confirming Neal's suspicion and sending a feeling of dread through his heart at the same time.

"Already called Agent Burke. He can't come right now; He's tied up with a case. He told me to update him as soon as I know anything about Caffrey's condition."

Peter's comforting words _had_ all been in his fevered mind. Even worse, the NYPD had him, and Peter wasn't coming. How could that be? First hurt and then fear assailed his mind. If he was in NYPD custody, and Peter wasn't coming, it was only a matter of time until Garrison sent someone to finish what they had started in the warehouse. Most people went to the hospital to have their lives saved; Neal was afraid Mt. Sinai would hold a opposite outcome for him.

"Caffrey," the voice surprised him, and he looked up in apprehension. The man had a tough face; the lines were hard and determined. But there was a hint of something else there, too, that caught Neal off guard. Sympathy, maybe, kindness? It brought back to mind his memory of Peter telling him that everything would be okay. When Peter said things like that, Neal believed him. He had believed him, but now he realized the memory was false.

Peter wasn't here, and he wasn't coming. The realization of that brought the pain of disappointment; worse, disillusionment. _Why_ was Peter not here? Did he not want to find out what had happened at the warehouse?

" _Once a criminal always a criminal_." McNeely had said, " _He'll be disappointed but not surprised_." Could McNeely have been right about things, right about Peter taking his word for what had happened?

"Everything's going to be alright," the man's continued at his side, "Just trust me, okay?"

 _Trust me._

The man's words caused sudden emotion to overwhelm him. He had trusted, but Peter wasn't coming. Peter didn't _want_ to come.

Ashamed of tears he felt stinging his eyes, he was glad when a new heaviness weighing on his mind.

If he couldn't trust Peter Burke, there was no one he could ever trust. Certainly not this man. He closed his eyes.

"I don't trust anyone," he whispered.

Being on his own and in trouble was a bad feeling, but nothing he hadn't experienced before. At one time, he had actually been accustomed to it. But it had been awhile since he experienced the feeling and he had forgotten how terribly lonely it was.

Wcwcwcwcwcwcwcwc

"I called McNeely and let him know I had a 10-95 on his suspect, and we were in route to Mt. Sinai," Carter relayed via telephone to Peter. "I told him you had been my first call, and you'd told me to call you as soon as the doctors said you talk to Caffrey."

"How did he take the news?"

"Sounded a little stressed until I told him that Caffrey was unconscious when I arrived on the scene."

"Is he on his way?"

"Yes," Carter said uneasily, "he's on his way. Is everything ready?"

"Agent Berrigan has everyone in place and has briefed the medical personnel that will be handing Neal's case. I will be over there as soon as I can get there. Everyone knows their role." He paused, "How is he doing?"

"He's stable, but in and out of consciousness" Carter replied, "More out than in now, actually. He's likely headed for surgery pretty quickly to repair the damage, but they're confident he will be okay." He paused, "I had to cuff him, Burke. It's protocol, and it's what McNeely and Reese will expect to see when they arrive."

He had spoken the last words with regret, and Carter wasn't surprised by the deep sigh at the other end of the line. "I understand," there was a pause, "Does he know he's cuffed?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Carter admitted, "I thought the meds had knocked him out but apparently they hadn't."

"Did he struggle, slip the cuffs or anything?" he could hear the concern in Burke's voice, and he debated how honest he should be about Caffrey's response.

"No," Carter recalled, opting for the truth. "Worse actually. He just looked at me like I'd shot his dog or something. Hurt and disappointed, you know?" he moved on before Burke could comment, "But he's pretty much out of it now, and I doubt if anything that's happened to him the past few hours are going to be very clear when he wakes up. If things go the way we plan, all of this will all just be a bad memory."


	13. Chapter 13

_Thanks for the catch on the Chapter number...when I combined chapters earlier, I forgot to change the following ones to reflect that change. I am almost finished with this story-work has played havoc with my free time-so I will be able to update faster from now on._ _Thanks for reading my story and for the reviews. :)_

 **Chapter Thirteen**

Detective Carter saw McNeely through the glass as he entered the emergency room, pulling out his badge even before he reached the desk. It had taken McNeely longer to arrive than Carter had expected and, never having liked the man, he enjoyed seeing the lines of stress on his face. There might be some sanctioning to come for his actions, but if it put this man away, it would be well worth it.

"Let him through," Carter said to the staff member who then buzzed him through the doors into the ER hallway. Detective Carter waited as McNeely came through. McNeely stopped in front of Carter. "You're Detective Carter?"

"Yes I am," he confirmed nodding down the hallway, "They just took him back about fifteen minutes ago."

"You sure it's Caffrey?"

"Yes," Carter answered, "I sent a photo to Burke and he verified."

"I guess he'll be here soon," McNeely said, "He wants to make sure Caffrey hasn't jeopardized any cases they were working."

"Burke is still tied up and I told him Caffrey's in no condition to give a statement right now anyway," Carter replied. "I told him I'd call him when he was out of surgery."

"What's his condition?" McNeely asked, "Is he going to recover?" Carter knew that McNeely hoped he wouldn't.

"Stable now," Carter answered, "but he was in pretty bad shape; lost a lot of blood. They've taken him back to prep him for surgery."

"I want to see him," McNeely said with determination, "Just to make sure it's the same man from last night."

"Is there any doubt?"

"Humor me." McNeely didn't wait for Carter, but stormed down the hallway, flashing his badge and making demands to see _his suspect_. Carter followed.

It helped that everyone involved with Neal Caffrey had been briefed and knew their role. After checking both Carter and McNeely's badges, the two men were allowed into the restricted area where Neal was being prepped for surgery. Carter hated to allow McNeely near Caffrey considering the fact that the man wanted him dead, but also because in Caffrey's current mental state, the meeting would only reinforce his feelings of distress. Carter knew that McNeely couldn't make a move with him present, so he was curious as to his real reason for wanting to see the man. It certainly wasn't for verification.

Caffrey looked some better than he had the last time Carter had seen him. He had been cleaned up; the bloody clothes had been replaced by a clean gown. He was hooked up to machines that monitored everything from his heart rate to his oxygen level.

"Why is he not cuffed?" McNeely demanded of Carter, "He's a documented flight risk."

The nurse who had just finished hanging a bag of plasma to the rack above Caffrey's head replied.

"Sir," her tone was impatient "we had the restraints removed when we brought him back, and you can put them back on once he's out of recovery. He is going to surgery as soon as we get his blood level up to an acceptable level."

"When will that be?" McNeely asked,

"Soon," she responded. "Why are you here? This is a restricted area."

"I know," McNeely said, badge again at the ready."I just need a minute. Is he conscious?"

"Somewhat," she answered, "He's been given a pre-operative sedative to keep him calm, and he needs to stay that way. That means he is not, _I repeat not_ , up to any kind of interrogation, do you gentlemen understand?" Her look told them she was not one to be argued with.

"I understand," McNeely said, stepping over to Caffrey, "I don't need to interrogate him, I just want him to know I am here."

His words sent a wave of anger over Carter. McNeely purpose for being here was now clear; to gloat. He thought he had gotten the best of his prey and he wanted him to know it. Carter stepped closer himself; if McNeely was stupid enough to say something incriminating he wanted to be able to testify to the fact.

"Caffrey," he said, leaning down near his victim. "Caffrey, do you hear me?"

Caffrey's eyes opened at McNeely's words. The medication slowing his responses, it took a moment for him to realize who was speaking to him. When recognition dawned on him, Carter saw alarm that the administered dose of Valium couldn't curb.

"Remember me?" McNeely asked, his tone taunting. The equipment monitoring Caffrey's heart rate noted a rise and McNeely glanced up in satisfaction as the pace of the low beeping increased; He clearly enjoyed the fearful look on Caffrey's face. The man was a sadist, Carter decided. He'd even take a demotion if it helped put this man away.

"Where's Peter?" Caffrey mumbled, his eyes darting around the room. Looking, Carter assumed, not for his handler, but his for his friend. He felt bad for Caffrey, looking in vain for a friendly face. His gaze found Carter's face but returned in disappointment to McNeely's. Carter hated Caffrey lumped him in the same category as McNeely, but he could understand why he would given the circumstances. In spite of the truth, Carter knew that in Caffrey's mind, he had no friends here, only enemies.

"Burke isn't here, Caffrey," McNeely's voice was low "Your little dog and pony show with the FBI is over." He leaned closer, "Agent Burke is done with you. He told me so himself."

"I don't believe you," Caffrey whispered. Even if he had said he didn't trust anyone, Carter knew Caffrey was still holding out hope in Peter Burke.

"It's true," McNeely replied, "I mean, I think Burke hates to see it come to an end; you've helped him make a name for himself. But now, well now you are more trouble than you're worth. A _liability_ even. So he's left you to me."

Caffrey didn't verbally respond to McNeely's words but his vitals did: His stress triggering an alarm that prompted the Nurse to end the visit.

"I told you not to upset him," she said firmly, ushering the men out of the area "I want both of you out of here, now," she said firmly, "Someone will let you know when he is out of surgery."

"How long will that be," McNeely asked, "and when _can_ I talk to him?"

"Forty-five minutes in surgery, barring any complications," she informed them, "and at least another hour in recovery. When he's moved to a room, he will be able to have visitors. But not before that."

McNeely wasn't satisfied with her answer. "Look, I'm not a visitor; I am Detective with a job to do. The sooner I can interview him the better."

The nurse was not impressed nor swayed. "I appreciate that, sir, but I also have a job to do. There will be no visitors, or _detectives,_ until he is out of recovery. You can wait in the second-floor waiting area if you wish."

Dismissed, the men left, traveled down the wide hallway and exited the huge double doors that lead back out into the emergency waiting room.

"I need to give Burke a call," Carter said, "He is going to want first shot at talking to him when he comes out, you know."

"Of course," McNeely seemed quite pleased, his eariler stress having faded. "I can wait. Plus, I have a call I need to make myself." Carter could guess what that call was going to be; a call to have Neal Caffrey killed. He could only handle the smug look on McNeely's face because he knew that, soon, it would be wiped off.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Peter was just finishing up at the office when Carter's call came. Jones had had a breakthrough with the missing money and had gone to bring in the accountant who had made the transfers. Warrants signed; other members of the team were digging through both McNeely and Reece's records. Diana had everything ready at the hospital. It had been a productive period of time. Everything was on track and in place; except Peter. His place was at the hospital with Neal.

Carter relayed what the nurse had told him about Neal's condition, as well as the timeline for his surgery and subsequent release into recovery. He also told him about McNeely's insistence on seeing Neal before he could be taken to surgery. Peter clenched his jaw in anger as Carter described the encounter.

"I am on my way there now," Peter told him. "McNeely knows me so I am coming in the back way. I will let you know when I arrive; I plan to be in recovery by the time Neal gets there."

"You have ten agents here, Burke, besides myself and Agent Berrigan whom, I must say, seems more than capable of handling things. I thought you'd want to be the one to pick up Garrison when this all comes down. He's the big fish here."

"No, I'm want to be there," Peter said firmly, "this time when someone tries to kill Neal they are going to have to deal with me. And after everything McNeely has done and said…" The thoughts of McNeely taunting Neal made him furious. "He's the one I'm looking forward to putting cuffs on."


	14. Chapter 14

_Again, thank you for helpful suggestions! Reviews really do make me smile._

 **Chapter 14**

It had been perfect timing: Peter had just made it into the recovery area when Neal was rolled into the bay after his surgery. Just less than forty-five minutes, Peter felt that was a good sign that all had gone well, but nothing about Neal's appearance reassured him. Unconscious and on a ventilator, blood visible on his gown and exposed skin, the sight of him hit Peter hard; he hadn't been prepared to see Neal like his. The nurse read his expression and tried to reassure him.

"That's one reason non-medical personnel aren't allowed back here," she said with understanding, "A patient's immediate post-operative appearance can be a bit shocking," She explained, "But we'll get him cleaned up and as soon as the anesthesia wears off enough for him to breath on his own, the ventilator will be removed. That will get rid of most of these wires and make a big difference in his appearance. He'll have a bit of a sore throat but he won't remember a thing about it."

Peter felt that there had been a lot of people counting on Neal's not remembering some of the more distressing aspects of his experiences of late. And again, he found himself hoping they were right.

"So everything went okay in there?" He was having a hard time keeping his eyes off the ventilator; even the sound it produced unnerved him.

"He did good," the nurse assured him. "We were a bit concerned with his blood pressure, given his blood volume is still a bit low, but there were no complications. He's going to need some extensive physical therapy, but the doctor is pleased. He will be ready to brief you….." she looked at Peter, "after everything _settles down_ a bit."

"That's good to hear," Peter replied as staff busied themselves hooking Neal patient up to the many monitors the room held. "So what now?"

"We will keep him here, monitor his vitals closely as the effects of anesthesia wear off. Then we can remove the ventilator and let him wake up."

"When do you expect that to be," Peter asked, "him waking up?" Peter wanted nothing more than those blue eyes to be open, knowing he was there and that everything was okay, but not until the threat of danger had passed.

"It's hard to say with all he's been through, but we normally give them about half an hour to forty-five minutes and then we start rousing them a bit." She replied. "He should be awake and fairly clear-headed in an hour and a half or so."

Staff entered the bay with blankets and covered Neal, taking care to tuck them around him gently. "Anesthesia can cause the body temperature to drop several degrees," the nurse explained, "These warmed blankets will help bring his body temperature back up to normal." She paused, looking at Neal, "So you really think someone is going to come in here to try to _kill_ him?"

"Pretty sure, yes," Peter answered. "They don't want him making a statement, so they need to get to him in here, before he is sent to a room where I can talk to him."

"I take it they don't know you are already in here?' she asked.

"They don't know I've already _talked_ to him," Peter corrected with a smile, "They still think their dirty little secret is safe."

"I see," she answered. "The officers outside are waiting for word that he's out of surgery. Shall I tell them he's in here?"

"Yeah, but can you give me about ten minutes to get ready?"

"Certainly," she said. She made a couple additional adjustments to the equipment before she and the others left Peter alone with Neal.

Peter didn't need ten minutes to get ready. He was going to be in the bay next to Neal, waiting with curtains drawn for someone to make their move. Everyone else knew the plan, and he would be alerted the moment any unauthorized person entered the area. Agents were set up at all both entrances. They were already familiar with the hospital personnel that was cleared for access; it had been limited to a small number. The hospital had been very cooperative so far but largely because the FBI had convinced them that there was a very definite time frame involved. If they were correct, the move to kill Neal would be made within the hour. Peter didn't need ten minutes to get ready; he just needed ten minutes with Neal.

He stepped over to where Neal lay. The ventilator made his chest rise and fall gently, a marked improvement from his earlier struggles for breath in the church cellar, but the apparatus itself was still unnerving in its presence. The room's lighting, Neal's dark hair and the dark lashes against his cheeks made his paleness more intense than it had seemed before. Completely still and attached to so many wires, Neal looked helpless and that was not something Peter was accustomed to seeing. Even in the cellar of the church, half out of his mind, Neal had seemed less vulnerable than he did now. In the cellar, Neal had been relieved to see Peter; he had felt safe with him. But since then, with muddled senses and unexplainable circumstances, Peter knew he had come to think that his trust in Peter had been misplaced. That bothered Peter more deeply than he could explain. Carter had told him how Neal had responded to being cuffed and also what McNeely had said to him before the surgery. Peter's face again burned with anger at the thoughts of the man taunting Neal in such a way, telling him that Peter had betrayed and abandoned him. Neal didn't trust easily, and it was the knowledge of Neal's mental anguish, in addition to his physical condition, that made him appear so defenseless to Peter now.

He leaned close, trying his best to ignore the machinery that was forcing air into his friend's lungs. Some part of him was painfully aware that it was because of him that Neal was in this condition.

"Neal," he began, "I'm here." He reached down and found Neal's limp hand, taking it in his own. He squeezed it. "I doubt you can hear me, but I just wanted to say…" He swallowed, finding it difficult to choose his words. "I want you to know that I would _never_ abandon you. I would _never_ tell you to trust me and then betray that trust." There was no response; he hadn't expected any. He took a deep breath before continuing. "I know you don't trust anyone right now, but try to have a little _faith_ in me, okay, just a _little longer_?" When he was finished saying his piece to his non-responsive friend, with a final squeeze, he released his hand and straightened up.

He turned, pulled the curtain away from the wall and stepped into the adjoining recovery bay. He moved the chair close to the curtain nearest Neal, leaving just a six-inch gap in between the light blue fabric and the wall. He took his seat and looked at his phone when it vibrated a few moments later. It was a text from Carter.

 _"McNeely stepped out to make a call,"_ the message read, _"You ready?"_

Peter sent an affirmative answer to Carter. He was more than ready. The sooner this was over, the happier he would be.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

During the next twenty-five minutes, Neal had several visits from medical personnel. Even though he had not received word that an unauthorized person had accessed the recovery area, Peter couldn't help but check each time someone entered the adjoining bay. He was especially pleased when the Respiratory Therapist came to remove the ventilator. He had to look away as the tube was pulled from Neal's throat and winced at the sound of gagging the action produced. Ventilator removed, Neal was then put on oxygen.

"We need to closely monitor his blood oxygen saturation," she explained, clamping an oxygen oximeter to Neal's finger. "His levels have been low, so supplemental oxygen is needed until we get a better reading." After a few adjustments and a nod to Peter, she was gone.

After the nurse, the Anesthesiologist and Respiratory Therapist, the fourth visitor surprised him; dressed in flowery printed scrubs, it took Peter a moment to realize he was looking at Agent Diana Berrigan. He was almost at a loss for words.

"You better be glad Neal is unconscious," he said with a chuckle. He wiped the smile off his face quickly at the look that crossed hers.

"Jones has to stay out of sight," she said curtly, "but McNeely has never seen me. This way I can be here in recovery when this goes down."

Peter was glad for the backup. "Glad to have you so close," he said, glancing at Neal, "and all smart remarks aside, I know Neal would be glad to know you are here, too."

Her tough look softened just a little at his words, and her gaze went to the still figure on the bed. "Well, if anyone is ever going to kill Caffrey, it's going to be me," A smile tugged at her lips, "and one remark about a sponge bath and it might happen sooner than later. So he's going to be okay?"

Diana was worried, Peter realized. She hadn't seen Neal when he had been brought in; She hadn't seen him since he had left the office to go to the meet with Garrison. Peter knew the sight of him now had to be disconcerting. He was just glad she had been spared the earlier version.

"Yes," Peter told her, "they said he came through with flying colors." He glanced at his watch. "It's been almost half an hour since McNeely found out Neal was out of surgery. I expect a move anytime now."

She nodded, the serious look returning to her face. "Me too. I just wanted," she paused, "you know, to check on him." She looked almost embarrassed. "And to let you know that I am right outside at the nurse's station."

She left them and Peter returned to his place in the adjoining bay. With all the traffic in Neal's area, he started to wonder if the killer would take a chance and wait for him to be moved to a more private setting. Before he could formulate a plan B for that development, his phone vibrated again. Another message from Carter. This was the one he had been waiting for.

 _"The rat has arrived. Dark hair, white coat, glasses. South entrance."_

Peter stood up and un-holstered his weapon. He moved the chair and stepped back close to the wall. Someone had come to finish what had been started at the warehouse; the trap, carefully set, was about to be sprung.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Peter didn't know what method the would-be killer would employ but was confident that it would be a quiet one. He wasn't expecting something as straight forward as a gunshot, or as fast as pressing a pillow over Neal's face. After all, to collect the $10,000 that Garrison was offering the man would need to leave the scene of the crime undetected. It would also need to be something with delayed results, giving him time to exit the area before anyone was alerted that the deed had been done. The general consensus had been that some kind of drug would be employed; the nurse had rattled off an alarming number that would fit the bill. An injection of the right substance and Neal would be dead in a matter of minutes. It didn't matter what kind of toxin the man chose; Peter was there to make sure he didn't get an opportunity to use it.

Peter heard the man close the curtain behind him after he entered the bay and saw him as soon as stepped near the bed. The man Carter had described-dark hair, white coat and wearing glasses-pulled a syringe from his pocket.

"Sorry, fella," he said conversationally to Neal, still blissfully unaware, as he removed the cover from the syringe "but this is easy money."

As he reached down to access the iv line into Neal's arm, Peter stepped from his hiding place, gun trained on the man's chest.

"Don't touch him," Peter growled, "Step away from him, _now."_

The man froze, a look of complete surprise on his face, then stepped back. Diana pulled the curtain open, her weapon drawn as well.

"Who are you people?" he asked, hands going up without even being asked, looking from Peter's murderous face to Diana's "No one is supposed to be back here. I don't understand."

"We're the FBI, you idiot," Diana supplied, "you walked right into a trap." She looked at Peter, "One rat down," she said, holstering her weapon, "three more to go." She carefully removed the syringe from the man's hand and placed it on the metal cart beside her. She then proceeded to check the man for additional weapons. Her search turned up a 9mm stuck in the back of his pants, and an empty ampoule in his coat pocket.

"Potassium chloride," she supplied. It was one of the drugs the nurse had mentioned, in fact, the first one that had come to mind. An overdose of the substance would cause severe heart arrhythmia in a matter of minutes, the heart spasming out of control and then simply stopping. A intravenous injection of potassium chloride would also produce no specific anatomic changes, and since both compounds are found naturally in the body, a medical examiner would simply attribute the cause of death to cardiac arrest.

"You are under arrest for attempted murder," she said, pulling his hands behind his back to cuff him. "No _easy money_ for you today," she said.

"Nope," Peter agreed, putting his own gun away "no easy money, only hard time. Hold up, there Diana," Eyebrows raised in question she let the man's hands drop. "How hard that time has to be, however," Peter continued, " _depends_."

"On what?" the man asked, hearing the possibility of negoitation in Peter's words.

"On how willing you are to help us catch the other rats."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Less than ten minutes later, Peter had handed the man over to Diana, went into the waiting area and arrested Scott McNeely. It had been a sweet moment; even Carter hadn't been able to keep a smile of satisfaction off his face as Peter cuffed the man and paraded him out of the hospital.

A red-faced McNeely had ranted and raved in indignation, then threatened legal action as Peter stuffed him in the back of the car.

Now, back at the office, Peter had left McNeely to sweat in interrogation for a quarter of an hour before joining him. He would have left him longer but he had other places he needed to be.

"You can't lay the attempt on Caffrey's life on me," McNeely said as he entered the room. "I had nothing to do with it; I have no reason to want your CI dead."

"Other than the fact that he can place you at Garrison's warehouse, testify that you are on the man's payroll and that you shot him when he made you."

"That's bullshit," His voice was confident, but Peter sensed concern in his eyes. He had to wonder how Peter had gotten that information. "Caffrey took shots at my partner and me when we interrupted him during the commission of a crime," he insisted, "We returned fire. It is all in my report."

"That _report_ is bullshit," Peter countered, "and we both know it. And you knew that as soon as Neal was out of surgery and able to talk, he'd tell us what really happened at the warehouse."

"I have no reason to fear anything Caffrey says," he scoffed. "I'm a fifteen year veteran of the NYPD; Detective second class with the OCCB and I have a clean record. How about Caffrey? What's his record look like?" He leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face. "He was somewhere he wasn't supposed to be, doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing, and he got caught. He's a liar, con man and convicted felon who'd say anything to save his hide. Let him spin his tales; he's the one going to prison, not me."

"There are a few factors that you aren't aware of," Peter's voice was low and menacing. "First, Neal Caffrey wasn't in that warehouse to engage in illegal activity; he was there as a part of an FBI investigation of Garrison. He was wearing a tracking device in his watch, and we were four blocks away. He had a case of FBI tagged cash-" he slapped some paperwork down in front of McNeely, "that turned up today in several money market accounts." Peter couldn't help but smile as McNeely paled, the smirk vanishing from his face. "We've already interviewed the accountant from Harbinger & Ives who executed those transactions. She was very cooperative."

If the news so far concerned McNeely, the next papers Peter placed in front of him alarmed him. Warrants for access to both his phone, email accounts and financial records. McNeely picked up the first one scanned it, then did the same for the second one. He didn't say anything but swallowed.

"As a detective second class, fifteen year NYPD veteran," Peter couldn't help the sarcasm that seeped into his voice, "I am sure you know what these are, and what they gave us access to."

"Yes," his voice was quiet, the smugness gone from both his face and his voice. "These were signed this afternoon, early."

"Yes they were," Peter said, "We knew Garrison had someone in law enforcement on his payroll, and the minute you called in that bogus report about Neal shooting at you, we knew it was you. A statement from Neal was all it took to convince the judge to sign them." He shrugged his shoulders. "After that, it was just a matter of gathering evidence and setting a trap for you to walk into."

"You haven't gotten a statement from Caffrey," McNeely said, some confidence returning, "This is bull; all just a big bluff."

"I don't have to bluff; I did get a statement from Neal-before he was transported to the hospital; a _recorded statement_." Peter enjoyed watching McNeely's face as he rattled off the charges. "I have you on obstructing a criminal investigation, assault with intent to kill, bribe receiving, criminal facilitation of racketeering as well as the criminal facilitation of the attempted murder of Neal Caffrey."

"You can't prove any of this," McNeely insisted, his jaws clenching in an effort to regain some of his lost bravado, "and I didn't have anything to do with the attempt on his Caffrey's life. A guy like that has plenty of enemies who want him dead."

"Probably, but none of them knew where he was. No one knew but you, McNeely."

"He was in custody," McNeely snorted, "Anyone from a beat cop to a desk jockey at a local precinct could have leaked information to a long list of people who want him dead. You can't lay the attempt on his life on me."

"Actually I can," Peter replied, "Remember that trap I told you about?" This time it was he who leaned back in his chair with a smirk, "Caffrey being taken into custody was never reported to the NYPD; Detective Carter called you directly and no one but you knew he was being treated at Mt. Sinai."

"I don't believe you," he retorted, "There were officers all over that hospital; I saw them. Any one of them could have tipped someone off to Caffrey's location."

"Federal Agents, undercover, hand picked by Agent Berrigan," Peter informed him. "And he wasn't even admitted under his name-we used an alias. We know you were the one who contacted the hit man; we have his phone and his cooperation. In fact, he made a call to Garrison about collecting his money."

"Look, Burke," McNeely said, licking his suddenly dry lips. "I can help you; I want a deal."

"We recorded the conversation," Peter continued as if McNeely hadn't spoken. "You know what Garrison said? He said he wouldn't pay until he had confirmation from _you_ that Caffrey was dead. He _named_ you, McNeely." His eyes bored into McNeely. "You are finished."

McNeely's look of disbelief was replaced with one of desperation as the gravity of the situation finally settled in. "I can help you get Garrison," he insisted again, "I just need some…some consideration." The thoughts of going to prison had taken all the wind out of McNeely's sails. And for good reason. Former members of law enforcment didn't normally fair well there.

"I don't need your help getting Garrison," Peter growled. "I have people on the way to pick him up as we speak. And if I do need more I'll talk to your friend Reese. I am sure he will be willing to cooperate with us for some… _consideration._ "

"I know more about Garrison's operation than Kyle Reese does," he said firmly, "and I am willing to tell you everything I know."

"I don't care what you know," Peter snapped back. "You'll get nothing from me; I will push for the maximum on each and every charge."

"You're willing to make deals with everyone-even a _paid killer_ -but not me, why?"

"Because of what you did to _my friend_ ," Peter spat, "because of all that _crap_ you said to him at the hospital..." He stopped, again feeling his blood pressure rise. When he spoke again his voice was calm. "You shot him at the warehouse, then called in that false report hoping some trigger happy officer would finish him off for you. You came into _my_ office to discredit him and then attempted to facilitate his murder at the hospital." He stood up, and leaned forward with both fists on the table. "You might be a Detective second class with the OCCB and fifteen year veteran of the NYPD, but you are _Going. To. Prison._ " He straightened, gathering the papers from the table. "We'll just see how _that_ snowball fares in hell."


	16. Chapter 16

_Thanks for reading and reviewing. :)_

 **Chapter Sixteen**

As soon as Peter finished with McNeely he turned him over to Jones to be processed. There was still a lot of paperwork to be done before the night was over but Jones and Diana were happy to handle it. The team would be busy the next few days with interviews, statements, and deal making. With an organization as large as Garrison's, additional arrests would likely be coming as well. It was a big win for the White Collar team; another feather in their caps. And again, for the most part, they had Neal to thank for it.

But he had paid a heavy price for the win and the only thing on Peter's mind now was getting back to him at the hospital. The last time he had checked with Detective Carter Neal was still in recovery, but Peter knew that if he wasn't already awake he soon would be. Everyone kept telling him that Neal probably wouldn't remember much of recent events but Peter wasn't convinced. Neal had been afraid, had felt betrayed, and Peter doubted those emotions would just disappear. He would feel better when he was able to see Neal himself, to make sure he understood what had happened and that everything was alright. Carter had promised he would talk to Neal as soon as he was awake, but Peter believed that for Neal to be convinced, the explanations would have to come from him.

Detective Carter met him as he entered the hospital and he knew by the look on his face that something was wrong.

"We've lost Caffrey," Carter said.

"Dammit, Neal," he said under his breath, then to Carter. "When? He was still in recovery when I talked to you less than half an hour ago."

"Yes, and he disappeared from recovery less than twenty minutes ago. I've got people at the exits and hospital security is already searching. We'll find him, Burke, don't worry. He's not been gone long."

Recalling Neal's condition when he had left him earlier, it seemed hard to imagine him even being upright. But he not only was upright; he was mobile. Scared, betrayed _and_ mobile. Peter wasn't surprised that Neal had wanted to run; he was just surprised he had been able to.

"The nurse said he had just regained consciousness," Carter continued, "He was groggy but responsive. They were getting ready to move him into a room but before they could, there was some kind of medical emergency in the bay next to his and the ensuing chaos, he just slipped away."

Ensuing Chaos? Even groggy, a properly motivated Neal was still a force to be reckoned with. "Was there really an emergency?"

"No," Carter admitted, "somehow both the oxygen clip and the heart monitor leads had come loose from the patient," he related "setting off several alarms."

Peter sighed. Neal had awakened after his surgery, and given his recent experience, instinct had taken over. The moment he had been left alone, he had created a diversion and made his escape. So typically Neal.

"He's running again," Peter said quietly, "even from me this time."

"Only because he doesn't know what's really been going on," Carter tried to console him, "He's scared, confused and not thinking clearly. He won't get far."

 _Scared, confused and not thinking clearly_. Believing he was in trouble with the police and that the only person he trusted had betrayed him, Neal's emotions were likely all over the place.

"You don't know Neal," Peter warned, "His first impulse is to run, to hide, just like at the warehouse. I'm sure McNeely thought he couldn't get far, either." He started towards the elevator. Neal had left recovery on the second floor; that is where he would start looking.

"He just woke up, it's thirty degrees outside, and he's wearing a hospital gown," Carter replied. "Surely even Neal Caffrey has his limitations."

"You'd think so, but I wouldn't count on it," Peter answered, exiting the elevator "especially if he's upset and running on instincts."

Carter looked at him, "You know him, Burke. You said he's like family; If he's running on instinct, what would he do?"

"He'd want out of here," Peter said, then stopped in his progress towards the surgical wing. "He's wearing a hospital gown," he glanced at Carter. "He'll change his appearance; he'll need clothes."

"Where would go for clothes?" Detective Carter asked, "Laundry?"

"No," Peter said, "That's on the fourth floor. Neal wouldn't run up; he'd run down." He looked at Carter with fresh inspiration. "He'll head to the maintenance area. Less security there. He'll find something to put on and make his way out a service entrance."

Peter did an about face, back to the elevator. He hit the ground level button. "I was afraid something bad would happen," Peter mumbled under his breath. "I knew he wouldn't react well if he didn't know what was going on."

"You tried to explain, Burke; he just wasn't in any condition to understand." Carter reminded him. "You did what you had to do. You told him to trust you, remember?"

But too much had happened without Neal knowing the reasons why; what fragile trust there had been had now been broken. He would be angry and desperate, and Neal acting on those emotions would not be good. There was no use trying to explain to Carter how _not good_ that could be.

"I know I did," Peter answered, "but I knew then it was asking too much."

Just as they exited the elevator, again on the ground floor, Peter's phone rang. The caller ID said Mt. Sinai Hospital. Maybe hospital security had found Neal.

"Burke," he said.

"Peter," Neal's voice was low and breathless. "I don't know what McNeely told you I did, but I didn't do it." Peter stopped in his tracks. Neal's running hadn't surprised him but getting a phone call from him did.

"It's Neal," he mouthed silently at Carter's curious look, then into the phone. "Listen, Neal, I know you didn't do anything. You're not in trouble; you don't have to run. Where are you?"

"Then why was I cuffed?" he asked, unconvinced, "An officer was in the ambulance; he cuffed me. He only took them off when they took me back and he would have put them back on as soon as he knew I was awake again."

Neal knew police protocol. Slipping a pair of cuffs wouldn't normally provide much of a challenge for him, but with only one arm to work with, he did have much better chance of escaping custody before the cuffs were replaced. Even groggy, Neal had recognized the fact and acted accordingly.

"No, Neal," Peter told him, glancing at Carter "He wouldn't have. You're _not_ under arrest," he insisted, "Where are you?"

"Scott McNeely was at the warehouse." Neal continued as if he hadn't heard Peter's words, "He works for Garrison. He shot me and he's here at the hospital; I saw him. He's going to _kill me_ , Peter."

"I know all about McNeely," Peter assured him "He and his partner were taken into custody an hour ago; Garrison, too. It's all over; You're safe now. We got them."

"I was cuffed to the bed," Neal's repeated, "and you _didn't come_." Peter heard the hurt and disappointment in Neal's voice. "You didn't even _ask_ me what happened; you just believed _him_."

"I did not believe him, Neal," Peter corrected, "I just let him think I did. It was all part of the plan." He took a deep breath. "I know everything is confusing, but I _promise_ , I can explain. I never doubted you, Neal; so don't doubt me now. Just give me a chance. Tell me where you are."

There was a pause. Trust may have been stretched very thin, but it hadn't been broken. If it had, Neal wouldn't have bothered with a call. He wanted Peter to explain; he wanted to know why things had happened the way they did.

"You aren't just saying that to….to _trick me_ are you?" Neal wanted to trust him; more than that, he _needed_ to trust him. Peter could hear it in his voice. That was why he had called.

"No, Neal," Peter assured him, "I'm not trying to trick you, just-" he paused, a thought occurring to him, "Do you still have your hospital bracelet on?"

Confused by the change of topic, Neal answered, "What?"

"Look at the name on the hospital bracelet, Neal, what does it say?"

There was a moment's pause. " _James Bonds_? " he sounded more confused than ever. "I don't understand."

"It was all a trap to catch McNeely, Neal," Peter explained, "We let him think you had been arrested and that I was washing my hands of you. He was the only person who knew where you were-we didn't even admit you under your real name-so when the news leaked, we had him. It was all a trap- _a con,_ Neal- _a con_ to catch McNeely. And it worked."

Again, there was a pause before Neal spoke. "It was a good con, Peter," his voice held respect, "You sure had me convinced."

"I know and I'm sorry," Peter replied. "Listen, Neal, we need to get you back and let the doctor's take care of you. You shouldn't even be up. You just came out of surgery. Where are you?"

This time, the pause spanned several moments. Peter hoped Neal was just thinking over his options and hadn't passed out. "Neal, are you okay?"

When his answer came, his voice was weak "Not really," he admitted, "I feel sick, Peter."

"Are you in the maintenance area?" Peter asked, already entering the door labeled _Maintenance_. Those area's of any hospital were always in such stark contrast to the public ones that one could almost forget where they were. Crisp white walls were replaced with the gray of concrete ones.

"Yeah, in the furnace room." His voice was quiet. "Are you really coming this time?"

"Yes, I'm coming" Peter assured him, moved by the hopefulness in his voice. "I'm almost there, Neal. Just hold on."

Peter disconnected the call, eyes looking desperately for the door he needed. It took him less than a minute to find it, and doing so, he opened and entered. It wasn't a large area, and he saw Neal immediately. He was sitting on the floor, head back against the gray wall, eyes closed. He was still clutching the phone in his hand. Just as Peter had predicted, he had changed his appearance. He was wearing dark blue coveralls, although one sleeve was missing an arm, and an ID badge dangled from the right pocket. He had even managed to find a pair of shoes for his bare feet. All in a depleted physical state and in less than half an hour.

"Wow," Carter said, properly impressed by Neal's transformation from patient to lazy maintenance worker. "He works fast."

"I told you so," Peter chided as he approached his friend. Neal had worked fast, but the exertion had been too much for him. He now appeared completely drained; his pale face was wet with sweat.

"I'm here, Neal," he said, crouching near him. "You're going to be okay now. Open your eyes."

The eyes opened at the command and locked onto Peter's, then his gaze shifted past him to where Carter was waiting expectantly. Neal grew tense at the sight of him, and Peter saw fear in the blue eyes when they again met his.

"Relax, John's a friend," Peter told him, hand going behind Neal's back and gently pulling him forward. He needed to get him out of here and back to where he could be cared for. "He's only here to help. You have to trust me, okay?"

Neal's response was to lean forward and throw up on Peter's pant legs and shoes. Carter couldn't hold back a chuckle of amusement.

"Well," Peter said quietly as Neal's eyes closed again, "I guess I deserved that."


	17. Chapter 17

_One more chapter after this one..._

 **Chapter Seventeen**

"It was all part of the plan to get Garrison, McNeely, and Reese," Peter explained. Neal was now in a room, out of the vomit covered coveralls in a clean hospital gown and resting fairly comfortably. Peter was trying to cover the basics before the pain medication the doctor had given him took Neal beyond the reach of his words. He wanted to make sure Neal was thoroughly convinced that he was safe and had no reason to run. Neal wasn't the only one who needed rest; the past thirty-six hours had also taken a toll on Peter. He had lost and found Neal twice so far. He wasn't up to a third round.

After finding Neal in the furnace room, Peter had called ahead and he and Carter were met by medical support as they left the maintenance area. Neal, having been, for the most part, carried between the two men, had rousted during the move. A combination of the jarring and the absence of pain medication in his system had left him in a lot of pain; his nausea had also persisted. A gurney was waiting, and he was whisked away immediately. Carter had been left behind, but Peter had trailed along until the last possible moment when they had taken Neal back into the ER to assess his condition. At that point, the hospital staff had been firm in their resolve that he remain behind.

Peter waited, and after a short while, the nurse took pity on him and gave him an update on Neal's condition. Ill and in pain, Neal had been given medication for both nausea and pain management. Several sutures had been pulled loose by his excursion and had to be repaired. Once the doctor was finished, and the medications began to take effect, giving Neal some relief, he would be sent upstairs to a room. Then, she assured Peter, he would be able to see his friend.

It wasn't too much later that he was given a room number and sent upstairs and shortly afterward, Neal was rolled into the room. Peter was glad his friend was conscious but by the look of him, he wasn't sure how long that state would remain. Peter was given strict instructions to keep the visit short, but he knew Neal also needed some long-in-the-coming explanations. He had to talk fast. Plus, sadly, the tracking anklet in his pocket needed to be replaced before he left Neal again.

"I don't remember being arrested and cuffed to the bed being part of the plan." The medication had dulled his bright eyes, but Neal seemed to grasp Peter's rendition of what had happened during the past days.

"Well, it wasn't a part of the original plan," Peter reminded him, "but neither were you stumbling upon the identity of Garrison's inside sources and getting yourself shot. We obviously had to make adjustments," he smiled, "You should appreciate that; you do it all the time."

"When I do it I know what I'm doing and why," Neal said quietly. "With this…well, with this is was different.'

"I know it was; being in the dark isn't fun, is it?" Peter mused, "I feel the same way when you adjust a plan in the middle of an operation, and I don't know what's going on."

"But you always catch on pretty fast," Neal mumbled, "and to date, it's never involved having you arrested by corrupt officers trying to kill you."

"Sorry about that," Peter said, "In my defense, I did try to tell you the plan but you were so out of it, you couldn't follow. I just had to do what I had to do to keep you safe. Even though, from your perspective, I know it didn't look that way."

"McNeely said that you were done working with me; that I was more trouble than I was worth," Neal recalled, looking away from Peter. Any color in the pale face was a change, so Peter caught the touch of red in Neal's cheeks. "And that is pretty much how it felt, too."

"I know it did," Peter conceded, "and again, I am sorry I put you through that." Peter paused. He dreaded what had to follow, but putting it off would only make it worse. "You know, the operation is officially over now, so it's back to, you know, business as usual." He pulled the tracking anklet from his pocket. It was always awkward, after a case, strapping it back on Neal. But it was the way it had to be. Maybe it was the drugs in his system, but Neal seemed to take it better than usual.

"Didn't think I'd get that back," he said quietly as Peter put the device in its place, "I wouldn't need it in prison."

Neal had been thought that Peter was finished with him and that he was headed back to prison. That was why he had escaped from the recovery area. But instead of just disappearing, Neal had called him. It still amazed Peter that he had done so.

"You know," Peter ventured, finishing his task and recovering Neal's leg, "I'm really proud of you Neal."

Neal's eyes found his again, brightened a bit at the possibility of praise. Peter knew Neal liked positive reinforcement and especially when it came from him.

"Because we closed the Garrison case and got McNeely and Reese in the bargain?" he asked.

Used to being appreciated only for what he could do, Peter knew it was important for Neal to be appreciated for who he was as well. That was probably what he always needed, but in his life, people had always been more interested in what he could do for them than for who he actually was. Peter knew that Neal probably lumped him in with that group as well. And for good reason; how often had he let Neal know that is freedom was dependent upon his service to the FBI? If he didn't deliver results, he would be sent back to prison? Telling him, just like everyone else had, that it was his skills that mattered; not him. But Peter wanted him to know that wasn't true. Who he was, the choices he made, mattered. And he had made a very good one under extreme circumstances.

"I _am_ proud of that," Peter admitted, "but being proud of your skills in the field is like being proud of the speed of a gazelle; always impressive but it come naturally to you." He paused before continuing. "It's when you do things that _don't_ come naturally that I am most proud."

"Like what?" Neal was curious but also a little apprehensive.

"Calling me when you escaped at the hospital," Peter answered honestly, "Even though you thought I'd turned against you, violated your trust, you still called me to give me a chance to explain. I know that wasn't easy for you, but you did it."

As awkward as it was for Peter to compliment Neal on a personal level, it was equally difficult for Neal to accept it. Peter's response was not what Neal had expected, and it took him a moment to reply.

"I couldn't believe you hadn't given me a chance to explain; that you just believed what you were told. That… _hurt_." Again his eyes darted away as he stumbled over the word. Medication was influencing his words; admitting to being hurt wasn't something Neal did. "Then I realized, well," his eyes again found Peter's "that I was doing the same thing; Just believing what I was told without giving you a chance to explain."

"I didn't think you would give me one," Peter admitted. "There was a time you wouldn't have," he added, watching his friend closely, "a time not that long ago."

"I know," Neal agreed, "and it wasn't my first reaction." He swallowed, "I was…angry and _upset_. I just wanted to get as far away from here-from _you_ -as possible. But just as I was ready to leave the hospital, something just kind of hit me, made me come back."

"What?" It was Peter's turn to be curious.

"One time you said that even when we didn't trust what the other was doing, we had faith that they were doing it for the right reason," His voice was growing fainter; his exhausted state and medication taking a firmer hold. "Remember?"

Peter did remember those words, as well as the ones he had said to Neal in the recovery bay. He had asked Neal to have faith in him. Even in his unconscious state, the words of reassurance had apparently reached him. The words had halted his escape from the hospital and prompted him to make the call.

"Yes, I do," Peter answered, reaching down and gripping Neal's shoulder gently. "Thanks for having faith in me, Neal, and for giving me a chance to explain. I'm sorry for all the" Peter paused, trying to pick the correct words, " _pain and suffering_ you've had to endure on this case." He meant both physically _and_ mentally but of course he didn't specify that.

"It's okay, now that I know why everything happened," With each blink, the time lapse from close to open of Neal's eyelids was growing significantly longer. "I'm sorry I threw up on you. Twice." Peter had cleaned up as best he could, but there was still a pungent smell that was hard to ignore.

"Only once," Peter chuckled. "That second one got John, not me. But still, I think taking a little vomit is better than taking a bullet."

"I don't know," Neal answered sleepily, "I'm feeling pretty good right now but you," his nose crinkled "smell pretty _bad_." He closed his eyes "I might just choose the bullet."


	18. Chapter 18

_For some reason, this last chapter was really hard to write. I plan to take my time with the next story, so don't expect anything real soon. I am working on Bonjour Encore, the sequel to Apres moi, and whatever else inspires me between now and then. Thanks for reading and reviewing. :)_

 **Chapter Eighteen**

Father Morelli wasn't normally pleased by the appearance of a person in a hospital bed, but this time was an exception. The man he now knew as Neal Caffrey looked much better sitting in one than he had lying on the cellar floor of his church.

Morelli had gotten the call from Detective Carter the day before updating him on the man's condition. When he had asked if the man was safe now, the trouble cleared up, he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. A special report had broken on the news only half an hour earlier, indicating that a major criminal ring was being dismantled. Information was stretchy, the announcer had said, but the word was that the FBI, in a joint operation with the NYPD, had taken down some key player in an organized crime ring. The case was still developing with several arrests being made and additional ones expected.

Father Morelli had been forced to smile when a great deal of credit had been given to the NYPD, in particular, the OCCB, for their part in the operation. Father Morelli didn't know much, but from what he had heard in the basement of the church, he was well aware that the NYPD had not been a part of the original operation. Nothing had been said about Mr. Caffrey's role, but of course Father Morelli hadn't expected there to be.

Caffrey was propped up on pillows, chatting with a rather pretty young lady in printed scrubs who had come to remove his tray. When she turned away tray in hand and saw Father Morelli, a small blush stole across her face. With a word of subdued greeting, she exited the room, and Father Morelli stepped in to officially introduce himself to the young man. Even though Caffrey wasn't a member of his church, somehow he felt a responsibility for him all the same. Maybe it was the numerous prayers he had sent up on his behalf, but for some reason, he felt his work with the young man was not finished. He hoped a visit with him would put his mind at ease and allow him to put the incident behind him.

"Father Morelli." The man greeted him as he entered and seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

"Mr. Caffrey," Father Morelli returned the smile and approached the bed. "It's good to see you in such good spirits."

"Call me Neal," the man replied, "Sorry I can't shake your hand, but well," His eyes were bright; so unlike Morelli remembered them. "My shaking hand is temporarily out of order."

"I'm surprised you recognize me," Father Morelli mused, "and I am pretty sure my name never came up when we met before."

"Agent Burke told me your name," the man explained, "He also told me you saved my life."

"Well, I don't think I can take that kind of credit," Morelli corrected, "I just did what you asked and called him."

The smile was small, "That translates into you saving my life. So thank you."

"You're welcome, then," Morelli said. "I'm glad you are doing well. The last time I saw you, you were in pretty bad shape. Do you remember any of it?"

"Not much," Caffrey admitted, "I kind of remembered you, but I thought I might had just imagined it. I don't normally have much contact with," the man smiled, "men of the cloth."

"That's unfortunate. Given your line of work, I would think you would seek spiritual counsel on a regular basis."

The change in the man's mood was subtle, but Morelli picked up on it. The smile remained but left the blue eyes; there was a slight tenseness in the man's body that hadn't been there before. When he spoke his tone was conversational but the earlier warmth was gone. "My line of work?"

"Working for the FBI," Morelli explained, "I saw firsthand the danger that puts you in. It never hurts to have a bit of divine intervention on your side from time to time."

His smile had its intended result; the man relaxed, and after a moment of what looked like uncertainty, he spoke:

"I have a confession to make," Caffrey smiled slightly at the phrase. "I do work for the FBI, but probably not in the way you think."

He shifted, a bit painfully by the expression on his face, and managed to kick his foot from beneath the sheet. His expression guided Morelli's eyes to his exposed ankle. Morelli had seen ankle monitors before and knew their purpose. He smiled.

"So, he does always knows where you are." At Caffrey's curious look, Morelli explained, "That's what you told me in the cellar: _Peter always knows where I am."_

"I was obviously mistaken that time," the man laughed, "but as a rule," he glanced at the monitor, "He does. It's kind of like a work-release program," a slight blush brought color to his face, "Instead of serving my sentence in prison, I serve it working for the FBI. Agent Burke is my handler."

Caffrey's decision to tell him his true association with the FBI was refreshing. Morelli found himself wondering why the man had been sent to prison in the first place. Of course, work-release with the White Collar Division of the FBI gave him some indication of what kind of criminal the young man had been and he must have been quite good to have been granted such an unorthodox arrangement.

"Your handler, I see," Morelli said quietly. But Agent Burke's concern for the man's well-being had been more than professional, it had been personal. He genuinely cared for this young man, and Morelli knew the feeling was mutual. He reached down and re-covered the tracking device with the sheet. "But I could tell the two of you mean a lot to one other."

"Well, yes," Caffrey's smile was easy. "He needs me to keep his closure rate up, and I need him to stay out of prison; you could say it's a _mutually beneficial_ relationship."

The man's downplaying of the friendship puzzled Morelli until he realized the openness he had seen in him at the church was not his normal state. Since Morelli had entered, Caffrey had referred to his friend as Agent Burke; in the cellar of the church he had only been Peter.

Of course in the cellar he had been suffering from cold, blood loss and delirium. With lowered defenses, he might have shown feelings of attachment to his handler that he usually kept to himself. Now, back in control of his emotions, he seemed determined to minimize the man's importance to him. But Father Morelli knew the truth.

"It might have begun that way," Morelli watched the man closely, "but it's clearly grown beyond that. Now you are friends. Very good ones, from what I saw."

"I doubt he sees it that way," Father Morelli didn't buy Caffrey's indifference. "We work well together, but in the end, he wears a badge and me," he met Morelli's eyes, "Well, I wear a _tracking device_."

The man's words gave Morelli illumination. It was the role each man played that made the idea of friendship troublesome for the young man. He had seen similar dynamics when one friend was promoted over the other at a job, complicating and often straining the existing friendship. It was hard to work for a friend, knowing they had the power to take away your livelihood if you didn't live up to their expectations. This situation was even more complicated; Caffrey depended on Burke for his very freedom. An emotional attachment would only increase his feelings of dependency and be especially difficult if Burke didn't return the sentiment. That, Morelli decided, was why Caffrey resisted admitting the friendship; he wasn't sure the feeling was mutual. But Morelli knew that it was.

The friendship had been clear by Burke's treatment of Caffrey in the cellar. The concern and the gentle, almost father-like way he had spoken to the injured man showed he valued his CI for more than his criminal expertise; he valued him as a person. But it was an encounter that Caffrey didn't remember.

Maybe Caffrey wasn't the only one whose defenses had been down in the cellar. Agent Burke, shaken by the condition of his friend, may also have been more expressive than he usually was. Neither man, Morelli was coming to believe, was very open about their feelings.

Dedicated to his duty as an FBI agent, Agent Burke was one to follow protocol and obey the rules. A friendship between an FBI handler and his CI was probably discouraged; it could easily create a conflict of interest. For that reason, he was likely as troubled by the friendship as Caffrey was. What if, by some turn of events, his job dictated that Caffrey's work-release be terminated? Would he have to send a friend back to prison? Both men had a lot at stake in a friendship that, he suspected, neither man had expected.

Father Morelli was a firm believer that things happened for a reason. Somehow and for some reason, two men from very different worlds had become friends. Maybe the reason he had needed to come today was to reassure Mr. Caffrey, in a time of doubt, of that friendship.

"He sees it that way," Father Morelli said with a smile. "You might not remember when he found you in the cellar, but I was there. Even if it began a bit unconventionally and has certain _complications,"_ he hand rested on the covered tracking device, "what I saw was friendship; a mutual one. One you can trust."

The look he received was a wary one. "It's not that simple," Caffrey stated, "In my experience, trusting only leads to trouble."

"But you trust Agent Burke; you told me he was the only person you trusted," he reminded him.

"Did I?" His eyebrow rose in question, but then with a sigh, he admitted as much. "Yeah, I trust him. Even when I think I don't, somehow I still do." He laughed. "That doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"It makes sense," Morelli affirmed, "It's called faith, my friend."

The man seemed to find his words amusing but didn't share the joke. He looked at Father Morelli curiously. "Don't you think it strange that I'm friends with the man who put me in prison, or that an uptight, a rule-following FBI agent is friends with someone like me?"

"Maybe, but things happen for a reason, Mr. Caffrey. You and Agent Burke were meant to be friends and things have, perhaps even miraculously, worked out so that you could be."

"Miraculously?" Caffrey looked skeptical. "I just thought I got lucky that my file crossed his desk instead of someone else's."

"I think people give luck credit," Morelli said, "when it's due in other places."

"Neal doesn't credit luck," Peter had only caught the end of the conversation, but he was aware of the topic. "He always credits himself; you know his skill and talent." He met Neal's look with a smile before speaking to the Father. "Good to see you again, Father Morelli."

"And you, Agent Burke," Morelli replied, the two men shaking hands in greeting. "I was just about to go," he glanced at Neal, "I just stopped by to check on Mr. Caffrey here. It's good to see that he is on the way to recovery."

"Thanks to you, Father Morelli," Caffrey repeated, "and thank you for coming to visit me."

"You are welcome, son," he said, readying to make his exit. "But it's not me you need to thank," he glanced suggestively upwards. "Feel free to come by the church and this time you can come in the front door."

After Father Morelli's exit, Peter stepped over to Neal. It did his heart good to see him looking so much improved.

"The desk nurse told me that you'd be out of here this afternoon," Peter said. "Surgery went fine, and even after your little" he paused, "field trip to the maintenance area last night, she said you are doing well."

"I know," Neal replied, "I saw the doctor this morning." He looked at Peter thoughtfully, "He said that just three centimeters to the right and McNeely's bullet would have hit a main artery into my heart."

Peter again felt the same tightness in his chest as he had when Carter had shared that news with him the day before. It was unnerving how close he had come to losing Neal during this case, in more ways than one.

"I know, Neal, Carter told me," Peter said. "We got a lot of lucky breaks this time."

"I don't know if I would call it luck," Neal ventured.

"Of course," Peter chuckled, "Not luck but _skill_ and _talent_."

"Nope," Neal shook his head, "Not that, either."

Peter's eyebrow raised in surprise. "What then?"

"Divine intervention." His voice was firm and for a moment, Peter was at a loss for words.

"Did they increase your pain medication?" Peter joked, making a gesture of checking the IV bag still hanging from the rack above Neal's bed.

"No," Neal replied, Peter's response taking some of the confidence from his voice. "But Father Morelli got me to thinking about how lucky I have been, not just with this-" he gestured to his bandaged shoulder, "-but in a lot of ways."

Peter knew to what other ways he was referring. When he had entered, he had heard Neal say that he felt lucky that his file had crossed Peter's desk; and even though Peter didn't always admit it, he felt the same way. But now Neal was thinking there had been more involved than simple luck.

"Divine intervention," Peter repeated. Then with a smile, "So, you believing in miracles now?"

"Maybe I do," Neal's tone was serious, but then a tinge of color touched his cheeks, and he looked away. "I know, you prefer your miracles with a little more smiting and lightning."

He didn't answer immediately. For things to have gone so incredibly wrong, a series of things had gone incredibly right. If not for a few miracles, Neal wouldn't be here at all. Not the least of them, in Peter's mind, was that Neal, feeling betrayed, had reached out to him instead of running away. In the absence of trust, he had relied on faith. That, truly, had been a miracle; one Peter was grateful for.

"Not this time, Neal," he reached down and ruffled Neal's less-than-clean hair affectionately, "this time, I'll gladly take my miracles anyway I can get them."


End file.
